


The Flavor of Laughter

by Brytewolf (brytewolf)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Romance, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 134,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brytewolf/pseuds/Brytewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is Starfleet's youngest captain. But he is untried, and inexperienced. What kind of captain will James Tiberius Kirk become? A story in three parts. Slow-building, will eventually be K/S.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Star Trek, or any of its components. I might want to, and be awfully possessive of one pointy-eared half-Vulcan, but I don't. Also, I don't own anything worth taking, so suing me wouldn't really be worthwhile to you, Mr. Rodenberry and his descendents.

****

* * *

**Part One

* * *

**

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter One

* * *

**

He is leaving her.

In a matter of hours, his life has drastically changed. It all seemed so simple this morning. When he had awoken, the most he had to worry about was his classes taking place that day. He had no idea it was going to turn into defending himself from a tribunal, and the events that had escalated since then. While the day has certainly been one of the worst in his young life – his day of birth notwithstanding – it has turned out to be…well, still horrible. But there were certainly some bright, bright moments in it to elevate it beyond the purely devastating.

He pauses just inside the corridor, observing the last of his crew entering the shuttle. The shuttle bay looks dramatically different than it did just hours before. Its pristine white walls and floors are now covered in a coating of grime, and there are blast marks clearly visible on its sides. The bay is gigantic, taking up the entire section of the ship. Considering that her crew is over 400 strong, that many shuttles are necessary. At the moment, there are few left in the bay. They are the ones that are too damaged to be trusted leaving the protected area, and the one that was waiting for him to board. They look sad, and alone, and confused. Not only is there dirt and damage on nearly every surface in sight, there are also panels removed and set aside. Her engineers needed to access the computer networks beneath to go about the necessary task of saving all their lives, and restoring her to operating capacity. Their tools are still strewn across the floors and available counter space – there was not nearly enough time to put everything back in its rightful place. That would be task of the engineers manning the space station, as her crew tries to recover from the ordeal they have all just been through. There is also evidence of hasty meals, taken as a group, by the Vulcan refugees that were filling every spare breadth of the ship. They were among the first evacuated from the Enterprise, but the evidence of their plight is also undeniably left behind.

Her temporary captain looks as abused as she does. His yellow tunic is ripped and covered in blood – most of it his own. His lip is split, there is a crust of blood under his nose, dark rings under his eyes, and there are undeniable, stark, purple bruises ringing his neck. His tousled golden hair is damp with sweat, and crunchy in places where he ran his blood- and grime-coated hands through it. The startling blue eyes that are his trademark are no longer smiling, and instead look suspiciously close to exhaustion. There is no expression on his face, as he is too tired to think about all that has happened. He knows he'll get plenty of time later to process events, but for now he is just focused on getting down to the ground and getting some real food inside himself. And then falling into his regulation dorm bed and passing out for days.

But first he has to say goodbye. She has been more than he could ever have imagined, that day back in Iowa when he saw her form tentatively being birthed on the plain. He had daydreamed about being part of her crew since that moment, and now he did not know if he would ever have a chance to even see space again. After all, before this whole intergalactic war with an unbelievably powerful nemesis from a future alternate reality began – he was being brought up on grave charges of academic dishonesty.

He presses his palm against the smooth side of the corridor, running it oh-so-gently against her sleek curves. He whispers sweet nothings to his lady, hearing her response in the gentle thrumming beneath his fingertips. She speaks to him like no other woman has, and he can't bear the thought of leaving her.

"You'll get by without me, won't you, girl?" he murmurs gently, his throat constricting as his voice breaks on the emotion contained in that simple statement. She probably won't even notice his absence, but he'll think of her always.

The continued caress of her mechanized hum is the only response he can expect. And so, he takes the last steps out into her shuttle bay, striding across the empty floor until he boards the shuttle awaiting his presence. He nods to his crew as they give him sympathetic smiles – they know, just as well as he does, what is waiting for him back on the ground.

He musters up enough energy to wiggle his eyebrows at Spock – just to piss him off – on his way to his own seat. And is unsurprised when it fails to elicit a response, but it gives him a sense of accomplishment nonetheless. He takes the seat reserved for him at the window, nodding at his Chief Medical Officer as he straps himself in.

That is all the time he has before the shuttle is gently taking off from its landing pad. He watches through the window as the bay doors spiral open, like a large iris retracting. Then they slip out into the vacuum of space, turning swiftly until they are on a trajectory with the planet.

His attention is focused on the windowpane before him. So thick, but so thin when compared to the vast emptiness on the other side. For several moments, she is filling his vision. The pride of the fleet, the _Enterprise_ is a master of modern technology, and a joy to behold. Her sleek lines and powerful nacelles promise speed and maneuverability, while her size manages to intimidate. But to him, her image also holds the promise of exploring the freedom of the unknown galaxies, and of a home full of friends and trusted confidants.

Involuntarily, his hand reaches up to splay against the windowpane. He sees all the hastily repaired damage: the torpedo tracks on her saucer, the blast marks from photon lasers. The holes ripped out of her. With all the damage, she looks so vulnerable, suspended there in that void. She was so beautiful, and only just that morning. Virgin, untested, untried. Her surfaces lovingly polished with a last coat of varnish before the engineers that created her sent her on her unexpected maiden voyage. Now she is damaged; battered, but not broken. Her strong lines are still clearly visible, but the newness has been stripped from her in the most brutal way possible.

He thinks, if anything, that she is more beautiful than she was before. There was something artificial about the newness that has disappeared, and left something stronger in its wake. Now she knows what can be thrown at her, she has sheltered her crew through the worst time-paradoxes and a crazed Romulan could throw at her, and come out shining on the other side. Her personality has been forged in the heat of battle, and she is the better for it.

He only hopes they will be able to say the same for him.

And then the shuttle picks up speed, as it leaves the influence of the space station she is docked at. She is dwindling in his sight, and he suppresses a gasp of loss. He drinks in one last long glance at her, and then forcibly pulls his attention from the window. Bones, seated next to him, grasps his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. It is a great gesture, considering his fear of space and their current predicament. He turns towards his friend, and gives him a half-hearted smile. He doesn't have to say anything: Bones already knows his feelings, and how much trepidation fills him at their imminent landing. He was there when Kirk's world was shattered this morning. There is understanding in his brown eyes: that is, until Bones accidentally glances out the window and turns a little green.

Kirk returns the offer of support, nudging his elbow into Bones' side to take his attention back away from the haunting emptiness of space. Grins at his friend, trying to ease some of the tension lines he sees around those brown eyes. As CMO of the recent mission, McCoy still has many patients' stats running through his mind, best courses of treatments and other lists of pertinent facts that must be communicated to the teams back on Earth. Especially regarding Pike, who was in stable but still critical condition when he departed for the extensive medical facilities at the Academy in an earlier shuttle. His brown hair looks like it has been pulled in a million different directions, and causes a more truthful smile to tug at the corners of Kirk's lips. He can imagine his friend tugging at it in frustration while he calls orders to his team. And Bones' blue tunic is as covered in blood as Kirk's own – but the blood of the lives he has saved. It was due to this man that most of the crew was able to get back to Earth: oftentimes, it had been only his skills as a medic and his refusal to give up on a patient that had carried many of his people through.

Still worried about the morale of his crew, Kirk lets his eyes travel through the rows of people in the shuttle. Chekov is seated at the window across from him, golden-curled forehead pressed against the glass as he whispers something unintelligible to himself in Russian. His thin frame is trembling with either excitement or exhaustion, Kirk can't quite tell which. Overall, the seventeen year old prodigy seems to be taking events better than expected. His seat-mate, Hikaru Sulu, also seems to be faring well. Kirk can't tell as easily with him, as the cocky attitude seems to be a permanent fixture of the Japanese pilot. And then he corrects himself – Kirk did, after all, see the fear in Sulu's eyes that matched his own, before that desperate jump to the drill platform.

Uhura had managed a seat next to Spock – not that anyone would be fighting to be near that stiff form. He exuded "don't touch me vibes," and Kirk does not know how Uhura had gotten past those to see any kind of warmth beneath. She is murmuring softly into his ear, and he nods every once in a while in response. Otherwise, he gives no outward sign that he is anything other than a statue. Shaking his head, as he has no time to contemplate their relationship, he scans the rest of his people for signs of overt stress. It is only the bridge crew in this last shuttle, so they are the ones that typically had the most stress involved in their – encounter. There are obvious signs of tension, but nothing showing they are about to crack. And he is full of pride for them, and how they handled themselves today. They seem to be weathering the storm better than his precious _Enterprise_.

But then again, flesh is always more resilient than stone.

(*)

As they approach for their landing at Starfleet Academy, Kirk is struck by how much has changed…and how much is still the same. What immediately steals his attention, and the gaze of all the passengers on the shuttle, is San Francisco Bay and the destruction wrought there. The normally clear water is a murky black color, still whipped into a frenzy that sucks at the shore and threatens to overwhelm the beaches. And the hole….even hours later, there is a whirlpool in the center of the body of water, as the liquid is pulled away from the surface and deep into the earth. In the center of the devastation lies the remains of the drill platform, the massive construct rising prominently from the waters of the bay. The exposed pieces of its underside are clearly visible above the surface of the waves, as if it is still full of hatred for Earth, and refuses to give in and sink beneath the surface.

Other than the deep hole marring its surface, the planet itself is largely unchanged. Most of what has occurred this day happened in the space surrounding the blue orb, but that does not detract from the catastrophe that nearly occurred.

The Academy itself is still whole, and a feeling of relief washes through Kirk. He has been afraid, because Nero had intentionally been targeting Starfleet. But, while all of its buildings are still intact, it is hardly recognizable. The campus looks like it has been attacked by a swarm of angry beasts. Its parking lots are full to overflowing, the hover cars coating the grass like shattered pieces of glass. And the people….so many people. Camera crews and civilians, a giant mass of people rippling back and forth like the waves on the bay. For a moment, Kirk fears that there will not be anywhere to land: then he notices the conspicuous empty place left in the middle of the throng.

Kirk gulps, and pulls self consciously at the collar of his purloined uniform. It _did_ take several hours to get back to Earth on only impulse engines, but he has not expected this sort of reaction so quickly. He is surprised, to say the least. _But_ ….it is harder to expel a member of the team that saved your Academy and your planet, especially if that person is publically visible. He wants nothing more than to have a chance to stay in Starfleet, and get back to his lady again someday.

So he squares his shoulders, and sits up straighter in his seat as they touchdown. Waves out the window at the reporters and civilians crowded around the ship for good measure.

They all disengage their safety harnesses and stand at the same time, nervous fear fluttering across their features as they look to each other for support. Apparently, none of the others – not even smug-bastard-superior Spock – expected this sort of homecoming. Chekov is no longer shaking with excitement, but instead looks like he swallowed a cat. A rush of sympathy flashes through Kirk, before the nervous tension suffuses every particle of him.

They part expectantly in front of him, allowing him to maneuver to the doors of the shuttle. As acting captain, he has the right to be the first one out the door. He jolts momentarily when Spock appears at his side, materializing quietly out of the anxious group of bridge officers. Damn Space-Elf moves like a shadow sometimes: Kirk blames it on that martial-arts mumbo jumbo he'd spoken of back on the Narada.

Not wanting to be too rude, Kirk turns to his temporary First Officer and offers him a genuine smile. Spock nods in response, no expression on his face, before he shifts his attention back to the shuttle doors. No other preparation seems to be required for the Vulcan before the doors open, but Kirk needs to take a few breathes to ready himself. He also throws back his shoulders, standing up straight. And changes the genuine smile into his best cocky grin.

And when the doors are opened, there are so many lights. Flashes everywhere, so many it is blinding. Kirk resists the urge to lift his hand, his eyes watering under the assault of light. He blinks for a couple of seconds before he sees the pathway that has been kept clear before them. It threads through the crowd in the direction of the main administrative building.

He walks forward, the rest of his bridge officers sticking close to his back. He risks a glance at Spock, and sees that same impeccable expression on his face. Everyone _else_ is obviously affected by the media blitz, why can't the prickly Vulcan even twitch an eyebrow at the attention?

Instead of the typical horde of engineers and medical personnel flowing over them and the shuttle like fleas, there is a noticeable absence of Starfleet uniforms. The only uniforms that are visible – besides those of the various media crews in the crowd – are the regulation law enforcement personnel keeping the throng from the thin path.

As they flow down the short ramp and onto the grounds, the officers behind him merge into two perfect columns. In synchronous step, and proud military bearing, they make their way to the administrative building. With all the attention, they know they have to serve the Academy proud.

After the dazzling light of the sun and the flashes outside, the administrative building is dark and quiet. Kirk steps aside, squinting to help his sight adjust, and allows those following him to enter the quiet building. He sees a silhouette before him, and after his eyes clear, he sees that it is Admiral Barnett waiting for them. The door, thankfully, is closed at last – blocking out all the light and sound from outside.

The Admiral clears his throat, and they all stand rigidly at attention. And then, to all of their surprise, he snaps them a perfect salute.

Which they promptly return.

"At ease, men." Barnett tells them, looking each one in the eye as they shift to parade rest, "I know you are all dead on your feet after the ordeal of the past hours, but we must ask one more thing of you. We need your statements about events _now_ , while they are fresh on your mind and all the details have not been diluted by time. Once you're done telling us all that you can remember, we're releasing you. We have rooms set aside in the building, specifically so you don't have to drag yourselves through that hornet's nest to get back to the dorms."

Finally, they all visibly relax. The tension eases out of their shoulders and postures, and they allow their exhaustion to actually show. They get seated in straight-backed chairs aligned in rows to await their turns. Then, one by one, they split off and disappear into the offices lining the hallway. There are three offices in use, and as one becomes available another officer gets summoned.

Slowly, his bridge crew disappears around him. As they trickle in to do their reports, his fears grow again. Kirk cannot stand the waiting: he is by nature an impatient person, and _sitting_ here waiting to be called upon is about all he can take. His foot tap-tap-taps on the floor, the silence complete except for his movement: all the others have been called away.

It feels like forever, and then finally Barnett is standing before him. Kirk makes a conscious effort to clear the lines of frustration from his face, and then looks up at his superior. Without saying a word, Barnett jerks his head in the direction of his office. Kirk rises and follows, his heartbeat increasing in trepidation.

Barnett sits behind his desk, resting his elbows on the wooden top, and steeples his fingertips together. Spends some time gazing at Kirk – seated opposite him – through considering eyes.

"So, Cadet Kirk. We have received quite an interesting story from the rest of the crew, regarding events and how _you_ came to be acting Captain on our flagship. What we are curious about, now, is how you interpret events, and your thought processes behind what transpired. Would you please elaborate?"

He takes a deep breath, and then begins. It starts out choppy at first, a stuttered sentence or two that finally strings into a strong dialog. He is as truthful as he can be, not glossing over the – touchy – bits of his behavior, but not focusing on them either. What Kirk _does_ focus on is the behavior of his crew. He paints them in as glowing of terms as he can, describing their bravery, their ingenuity and resilience… and while he's talking, he is filled with pride yet again. He knows, deep inside, how rare an opportunity he has had: a singularly spectacular crew was under his command for several hours, and nothing else will compare.

When he is finished, there is silence. Barnett regards him over his fingers, the tips tapping together gently as he mulls over all he has heard. Then he nods, once, and turns his attention to the PADD before him that has been recording the narration. "Thank you, Cadet Kirk: that should be more than enough for the admirals to put together a statement for that media frenzy outside. Unless you have anything else to add, the ensign outside the door will be able to direct you to your temporary quarters. I know you must be exhausted from your ordeal."

Kirk stands, getting ready to leave. He is stuck in indecision, clearly able to recognize the dismissal that it is – but the most _significant_ issue has not yet been brought up. And he has never been one to dance around a question, or avoid a problem.

"With all due respect, sir, I was hoping I could receive an update on the events that were interrupted this morning. When is the tribunal going to convene again?"

The Admiral's expression softens, with something like compassion passing over his features, "Son, there isn't going to be another tribunal."

He continues talking, but the rush of blood in Kirk's ears makes his words unintelligible. Kirk is overcome by a momentary flash of confused clarity – if his heart has stopped, how can the blood still flow in his veins – before despair and loss overwhelm him. They weren't going to give him a chance to defend himself further, the decision had already been made…they didn't care what his motives were, how much he loved the Academy and all it stood for – they were throwing him away, banishing him, ripping him from the only thing he had –

"…and then Mr. Spock dropped the charges, so even if we had to consider everything else that's happened, we have no recourse but to allow you to graduate with the rest of your classmates…"

The statement penetrated through the fog enshrouding his thoughts, through the mind awhirl with desperation and the pleading pounding against his skull. "Wait, What?"

Barnett pauses in his explanation, looking at Kirk with confusion, and then – when he catches the expression on Kirk's face – a focused understanding.

"The charges were dropped, cadet. Mr. Spock no longer wishes to pursue the tribunal."

The words don't make sense at first, his brain trying to grasp the threads of reason.

"Kirk, that means you're still going to be one of us."


	2. Chapter 2

****

* * *

**Chapter Two

* * *

**

He awakens to confusion. The bed is too soft, there is too much light, there is no Bones snoring in the bed beside him. He keeps himself still, his breathing at the slow pace of sleeping, while he tries to filter out his location.

Quiet…so abnormally quiet. Not the dorms at all, not even Gaila's room after she's left early. A stab of sorrow cutting through his contemplation, but no reason for the heartache – and then he remembers.

It all crashes against him with the force of a thousand tons. The tribunal, his world breaking, the _Enterprise_ , Spock's hands crushing his life away...the desperate fight aboard the Narada, and Nero's destruction. Coming back home, his testimony, the restoration of all he thought lost…. And then stumble-follow in a daze until he is pointed at a bed. And falling, not even bothering to remove his boots, and sleep.

Her face flashes through his mind, her curling flame-kissed hair floating after. And he remembers….

And then his eyes scrunch tight, and he turns to bury his head in the pillow. If he is going to cry, he does not want anyone to hear him through the walls. He chokes on the gasps, recalling soft hands and smooth curves. An easy smile, someone who knows he's broken and doesn't care…a laugh that sooths his pain, which he'll never hear again.

All of a sudden, the sorrow turns to anger. His fist connects with the pillow, the force enough to make a deep indention in the soft material. If only he'd connected the dots sooner, if he'd gotten the chance to _warn_ the other five ships of the imminent ambush, she'd be alive. She, and the rest of the Farragut's crew would not now be molecules floating in a vacuum.

It takes him a long time, but eventually Kirk gets himself under control. He waits, counting his breaths, until his fists unclench. Breathes deep, pleased there is no audible hitch. Then he shifts to a seated position, frowning at the obvious light coming through the window. It is definitely not early morning anymore, and he is unsurprised that he has slept so long. His body had needed to replenish itself after so brutal a day, one that demanded so many of his resources. The only good thing the morning brings is a lack of racket outside: this means the crowd of civilians and media personnel has finally cleared out of the campus.

He stretches, his spine cracking in a glorious series of pops. His belly growls, letting him know he shouldn't wait too long before he puts some food inside it. Knowing that he's not quite ready to face an Academy that has been altered forever – but also understanding that he has no choice – he gets up and begins his day.

* * *

As with any traumatic event, after circumstances unfold and the inevitable conclusion is reached, life has to continue. There are still young cadets that need teaching, experiments that must be monitored, and a million other daily activities that must be taken care of at the Academy.

They go about the motions. And if the teachers seem listless, and aren't putting their hearts into the lectures: if the remaining students keep staring off into space, or turning to speak to someone who is no longer there – no one comments. They all understand, and are suffering the same reactions. Wordless, support is asked for and simultaneously offered by all the inhabitants of the Academy.

Kirk walks through the empty corridors, the seniors he encounters seeming to the senses more like ghosts then inhabitants. There are so _few_ left that Kirk can't help the sorrow that tightens his throat at the visible reminder of their loss. Nearly 2,000 of Starfleet's best and brightest blown to dust in a matter of moments. No conversations are being held, the students walking in pairs or small groups whispering quietly to themselves when speaking is required.

In the classrooms themselves, it is even more ominous. In a stubborn refusal to give in, the cadets are seated in their customary places. This means the auditoriums are a sea of empty chairs, with a few students sprinkled on their individual islands the only thing breaking up the desolate landscape. The teachers do not ask them to huddle together at the bottom, instead continuing to project – so even the cadets at the back can hear them clearly.

No one has the heart for lessons. Even Kirk cannot dredge up his customary cocky attitude in response to the oppressive atmosphere. It feels like they are all strangling quietly under the weight of their heartache, and the inhabitants feel far too much like adults than students at the end of their school terms. All the excitement over graduation, and planning summer getaways with friends, the speculation over assignments…whisked away, until not even a whisper is left in the halls.

It is in this stifled mood that Kirk finds himself, when he is in his last class before lunch. With his chin resting on his hand, he is staring blindly forward. Not paying attention to the lesson – what little of one there is – but resolutely not-thinking either. His gaze is skimming over the tops of the few students in front of him, when he notices that one curl-topped head looks awfully familiar.

Sitting in the very first row, like any prodigious over-achiever would, and scratch-scratch-scratching notes furiously on the PADD in front of him, is Chekov. Certainly not someone Kirk would have recognized prior to today, but it is undeniably his helmsman.

From somewhere deep inside, Kirk is able to pull up a soft chuckle of enjoyment. Somehow, Chekov's determination is infectious. Kirk shakes his head slowly back and forth, to clear the cobwebs that have clung there since he woke up this morning, and actually begins to focus on the lecture being presented to him.

After the teacher finishes, he swaggers down the stairs, waiting patiently beside the still furiously writing Chekov. He stands there for several minutes before his presence penetrates through the young man's intense focus. And then, he finds himself caught in the gaze of two brown, incredibly startled, doe-eyes.

"K-keptan!" Chekov chirps, his surprise giving the impression that he's been caught doing something unspeakable, instead of dutifully doing his class duties.

Kirk grins to calm the terrified boy, and pats him on the shoulder, "It's not Captain anymore, Chekov. I didn't realize you were in this class."

Chekov flushes, his accent becoming even more prominent, "Yes, Keptan, I am well wersed in zhe mechanics of trans-warp communication." And here, the doe-eyes drop away from Kirk's face, "I hawe ewen been trusted to teach zhe class, on occasion."

And now it's Kirk's turn to be embarrassed. He would have hoped that this earnest young genius would have made more of an impression on himself: and resolutely decides not to do that to Chekov again.

"Not a surprise," he temporizes, "after all, I didn't find the opportunity to come to class fairly often myself," – flash his biggest grin – "so I must have missed those days. I'm sorry I did, I'm sure they must have been fascinating lectures."

"Oh! Zhe were! If you like, I can tell you a summary of zhem? I have all of my notes up here," and he taps his forehead for visual reference, a hopeful look on his face. And his blush is even _deeper_ after the compliment.

Kirk suppresses a grimace – he really wasn't in the mood for a discussion on anything but food right now – but needs to make it up to Chekov somehow. Also, he can't see any way to back out without crumpling that puppy-dog expression, and he can't bear to do that.

"Sounds great! I could use some brushing up before the final. Have you had lunch yet?"

A head shake is his response, "Were you planning on going to zhe cafeteria?"

This time he doesn't try to suppress the grimace, "Yeah, but their food is never the best. It always tastes like their replicator ran out of flavor components."

Furious agreement, the curls bobbing up and down like they have a mind of their own, "It iz always edible, at least. Which iz better zhen my academy in Russia."

He squeezes the younger man's shoulder, then scratches the side of his head, "So…how did you decide what you wanted to lecture about?" And has to resist the urge to tug on the perfect curl in the center of Chekov's forehead, as the prodigy launches into a discussion on his favorite topic: _knowledge_.

In mutual agreement, they trail down the remaining stairs and out onto the campus.

* * *

As the days go by, it gets easier. Little by little, they begin to breathe again. Seven days after they arrive back at the Academy, Kirk is walking through the hallways when he hears a soft laugh. Everyone around him freezes in the same instant, and turns toward the sound.

It is a first-year cadet, her hands clamped over her mouth to stop the sound that has already emerged. She looks terribly mortified, and ashamed, no trace of the mirth that had escaped her a moment before.

"I-I'm so s-s-sorry!" she cries, on the verge of tears, "I didn't mean to – I shouldn't have –"

Kirk frowns, taking a step forward. There is injustice in this: "No, don't ever apologize for being happy." He walks up to her, confidence in every step, "You're right to laugh…it's good to hear you laugh."

She stares up at him, and gulps back her tears. "B-but…they're gone…"

"That's true," he sighs, running his hand through his hair and looking at her seriously, "but we have to remember," and now he turns his gaze to everyone in the hallway, "that while they are gone, _we_ are not. And that even though we hurt, we can't exist in sorrow indefinitely. We need reminders that life is still happening, and that we are allowed to smile. And laugh."

Slowly, they begin to nod around him. Some of them sigh, as something that was broken and bleeding inside them is allowed to start the healing process. The girl gives him the beginnings of a trembling smile, and on impulse Kirk pulls her in. Gives her a quick, tight hug, and releases her.

That seems to be the signal they were waiting for, and the group of students begins to move once again. They walk around them, some of them brushing her gently with their fingertips as they go by. Kirk understands the need for contact, of reaffirming life, which they all share.

Glancing up, Kirk notices they only spot of stillness in the vast moving body. Somehow, even though students continually cross their paths, their movement does not break the locking of their eyes.

Spock, stiff spindly Space Elf that he is, had seen the whole encounter. Kirk grimaces, a flush appearing on his cheeks. Then anger flashes through him – he has nothing to be ashamed of. He turns back to the girl, and gives her one more pat on the shoulder before he can give Spock his full attention.

It is only a moment that his focus is shifted, but when he looks back up at the spot that was so recently occupied by the Vulcan – Spock is gone.

* * *

He is not surprised that he feels misplaced after Gaila's loss, but he does not expect the emptiness that fills his evening hours without her presence. He has Bones, sure, but the medical student is busy doing lab work most nights. And he's been talking to Chekov, but the whiz kid is involved in so many different projects he barely has a moment of time for himself.

And that's when Kirk realizes how pathetic his social life is. He'd been at school for three entire years, and he'd only made two true friendships. Sure, he flirts with anything on two legs – and sometimes more than two – but he'd never been one for frivolous relationships. Gaila had been perfect because she had been a friend first, and the physical aspect of their relationship had simply been an extension of their desire to be in each other's presence. They both had needed the touches, the reaffirmation of themselves they found in each other. It had been a mutual exchange of comfort, given freely by each. He had been trying to forget the things no one else ever let him forget, and she had been searching for someone who cared about her for her, instead of someone mesmerized by the pheromones she couldn't help but give off.

Which meant that while he was sad at her passing, he was not heartbroken. Gaila had been friend, loved, and lover, but not beloved. And he now realized how rare it was to find someone willing to look past his cocky exterior, to actually befriend the person he was beneath his mask. Only she and Bones had ever bothered. Her absence from his life leaves a very large hole, and he finds himself studying far more than necessary.

There is nothing else to fill his time. When he doesn't occupy himself, he is alternately caught between remembering her – a bright bright smile that was only for him – contemplating how close he came to losing everything – crushing weight on his heart, he cannot bear the thought – and being so tediously bored he considers stabbing himself in the eye just for the assurance that he exists. Kirk is just inordinately _pleased_ – oh, the irony! – that finals take place in the next two weeks, so he has something to funnel his energies into. But, he is convinced that he is going to be the most over-prepared test-taker of the year. And then he remembers how fiendishly Chekov is studying, however unnecessarily, and corrects himself: _second_ -most overly zealous participant.

It is Friday night, and Kirk could really come across something less constructive to do with his time – fleeting thoughts of getting drunk and hitting on people at the local bars cross his mind. But he still doesn't have the heart for it, after all the emotional ups and downs of the past weeks.

Instead of forgetting himself at the bottom of a glass, Kirk is back in his dorm room. Sprawled on his belly across his twin bed, his myriad PADDs littered around him, he is deep in a study session. Or, at least, trying to be. His thoughts keep flitting back and forth, and he is unable to concentrate. Glancing at the clock for the hundredth time – it has moved exactly two minutes forward – he lets out a groan. Kirk rolls onto his back, and massages his tired eyes with stiff fingers.

His back arches, as he is overcome with frustration. So many things, pent up inside him. If only he could find an outlet for one of the emotions tugging him apart inside, maybe the rest would ease up a bit. His eyes slide towards Bones, stretched out on his own bed and bent over a PADD. Maybe….Bones is certainly attractive, with his long frame and expressive eyes. It's not like Kirk hasn't tried before, or that giving comfort between friends is unheard of. He just feels so damn alone….

And so he twists the arch, making it seductive. Grasps the sheets in his hands, and groans – with just a hint of a moan in it. The response isn't exactly what he was hoping for. Bones glances up, looking at Kirk from the corner of his eye. Doesn't even blink, and turns his attention back to his PADD.

"Not _even_ interested." He states, patently ignoring Kirk's imitation of Chekov-eyes. But Kirk isn't quite ready to give up.

"Come on Bones…I'll let you top?" puts a lil purr into it.

It has absolutely no effect. "Again, no." Not even another glance in his direction.

Deflated, Kirk sinks back into the mattress. Puts his hands over his face again, and closes his eyes. So high strung, so much tension just ringing through his tendons and he doesn't even know _why_ or what to do with it….

Because his eyes are closed, he misses McCoy's considering gaze. The doctor is looking him over, inspecting him and observing all the signs of stress and tightened muscles.

Kirk's eyes open when he hears a shuffle in the bed beside him. Apparently, Bones has been hiding liquor from him, as a bottle of very old, very expensive looking brandy has appeared out of nowhere. He raises his eyebrows at his friend, a question in his eyes.

Bones clears his throat awkwardly, shifting his shoulders under his Academy uniform. "I understand exactly how you're feeling, kid. And while I can't help you that way, I can certainly share a bottle with you and help you forget for a while."

A slow smile appears on Kirk's face, and he nods. That certainly _did_ sound appealing. The bar scene wasn't good enough, not tonight. But alone in their dorm, where they could just sink into misery together…that sounded promising.

"Now get over here, so we can get drunk already, and stop with the damn gushy stuff!" Bones shifts over, so there's enough room for Kirk with him on the bed. Kirk transfers his sprawl to his spot next to his friend, and they begin to pass the bottle back and forth.

"So, Bones, where _exactly_ did you pull this bottle out from? I know you haven't been holding out on me, and this is the good stuff! I thought we were friends!" the puppy-dog eyes are out in full force.

One eyebrow goes up, a suspicious glare shot in his direction; "God damn it, kid, a man needs some secrets!"

* * *

As is to be expected, Kirk is horribly hung over the next day. Cursing Bones, and his seeming immunity to the horrors of liquor, he escapes the dorm room and decides to go for a walk around the campus. It is still early enough that most of the other cadets are busy sleeping off their nights, but late enough that all the remnants of fog have been burned away by the morning sun.

He begins in the rose garden, but finds the sterile blossoms are not quite what he is looking for. Thankfully, the shared bottle last night did wonders for his mood. And now he is looking for something a little less…sedate. Less hedged in by other's desires. There are many gardens located on the campus, and he threads his way through them in an attempt to find one that fits his mood. The wild flowers are almost there…the riotous colors mixed in delicious combinations, but still contained in their borders, restrained by the unseen hand of man.

He is in the desert garden. Its stark beauty appeals to him; he is embraced by the harsh atmosphere that could create some of the most beautiful life forms in its brief moments of remorse. The spindly trees and cacti struggling ever upward make him feel at home, though the harsh ecology is vastly different than the Iowa he grew up in. Kirk bends over to inspect one of the strange flowering plants, its petals blood red and dagger-tipped.

That is when he hears them. A rush of air flowing past him, and then the sub-sonic boom that means something is moving faster than the speed of sound. Straightening quickly, his eyes strain to scan the sky above him for signs of the craft. There – off to his left, they are courting each other in a dangerous dance of weaving and coils in the air.

They are disappearing out of his sight, and he springs forward. Slipping easily into a ground-devouring jog, he soon finds himself in the middle of the field they are dancing above. There is a huge grin on his face – the biggest he's had in weeks – as he flops boneless onto the ground to watch.

His head cradled in his hands, he is transfixed by the magic of their movement. He loses track of time, enthralled by the deadly entwining of planes. Ever since he was a little boy, he's loved going _fast_ , and watching them speed across the sky is almost as good as being there himself. This was something that a starship would never do: when he warped, he would indeed be going faster than the speed of light – but it wouldn't _feel_ like it. There was no inertia of an invert, the increased gravitational pull of a sharp turn at great velocity. As far as the people inside the ship could tell, they were standing still. He knew it had to do with the fact that the warp engines were creating a bubble of space around the ship, and that space moved and the ship was staying still. But even though, intellectually, he understood the need, he still felt like something was missing from the entirely too clinical experience.

Not that he'd ever give up his hope of captaining the _Enterprise_ again, but maybe at some point in the future he could afford one of these little pleasure-craft for himself. It seemed like the experience was even better than his specially-customized bike had been; after all, these creations were not hindered by gravity, and could perform moves the bike could never imagine. His grin, amazingly, became even larger as he began dreaming of a day when he would be in the atmosphere of the planet.

His pounding headache completely forgotten, he is lost in thought until he notices one of the little ships flying closer to the ground. And while they had kept themselves zipping across the field with no apparent destination, this one seemed to be making a bee-line in his direction.

And then something even more impossible occurs. Instead of just flying above him, the ship _inverts itself_ and he is staring up into the face of a very entertained pilot. The ship is so close to Kirk's prone form that he could reach out and touch the glass of the cockpit. The pilot then executes a perfect spin, righting his ship with an effortless move. It takes a moment for Kirk to realize that the pilot had been…waving at him.

The pilot had been none other than Hikaru Sulu. Kirk lets out a whoop, leaping from the ground, as he whirls to see the plane speeding off behind him. Sulu executes a loop, seeming to suspend himself upside down for a moment before shifting the loop into a barrel roll. Kirk is even more amazed, now knowing the controller of the swift little vehicle.

The ship makes its way back to its partner, and they continue their gyrations above the ground. Each move is more daring than the last, one ship leading and then the other in a dance of guts and skill. It culminates in one vehicle diving sharply – such an impossible angle – towards the solid earth beneath them. The other follows without a moment's hesitation, and they are falling-falling-falling –

His breath stops in his lungs as he watches, terror and amazement warring for domination in his mind. At the last possible instant, the first ship – Sulu – corrects his dive. At such speed, the pull against his arms on the steering mechanism must be close to ripping them out of their sockets. But he makes it seem as easy as breathing. His partner is a millisecond behind, his maneuver not quite as smooth, but just as breathtaking.

Kirk lets out an exuberant cheer, his adrenaline pumping from the sight. He sees them making their way toward the hangar, and pelts after them at top speed.

Panting, he walks the last few steps up to the aircraft. Sulu has just piloted a perfect landing, and Kirk watches as the cockpit slides open with a pop of released air. With a well-practiced leap, Sulu is out of the ship and firmly planted on the ground once more. He rests a hand against the side of the craft, giving her a loving pat. Then he turns to Kirk, a huge smirk on his face.

"So, what did you think?"

Kirk matches the grin with a gigantic one of his own, and grasps the Japanese pilot's shoulders. "That…that was the best thing I have _ever_ seen in my entire life!" and he begins shaking the other man in his excitement, "I didn't even think some of those moves were possible! It was fantastic! You _have_ to let me watch you next time you go up!"

The Asian inflates a bit more at the praise, and glances sidelong at his ship, "You know, I think I can do you one better. She has two seats, if you want to go up?"

The noise that escapes Kirk at that moment is unintelligible. It is such a mixture of emotions – so fast so fast so full of joy! – that he can't contain them all. "Do I want to? Let's see you stop me from coming!"

Sulu grins again, and signals to one of the engineers standing off to the side, "Let me just get her refueled, and then we can go back up."

* * *

 **A/N:** So. If there were 400 students on the _Enterprise_ , and we assume that they were distributed roughly the same to all ships. There are 5 that are destroyed because they get to Vulcan before _Enterprise_ does (going off the novelization), that means roughly 2,000 students destroyed! BAM! If 5/6 of your entire senior class is destroyed in a day, that's gonna be a mighty traumatic event.

And with a class that huge, there's no way the Bridge crew knew each other before all that stuff happened. Fast buddies? Nopies! Complete strangers! Well, besides Kirk n Bones, of course!


	3. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Three

Chapter Three

* * *

Finals week comes, and he runs out of any time for anything. He eats, sleeps, and breaths schoolwork in his last final effort for the Academy. He is doing the best he can, with his new goal in mind. His intention when he entered the Academy was simply to graduate in three years, instead of the typical four. This, he has accomplished. His new goal is proving himself worthy; so that one day he can return to his lady. Studying is now his life, and there is no time for speaking to anyone; at lunch, he and Bones simply grunt at each other over their meals as they desperately cram for their next exam.

It seems as if the instructors resurrected themselves just in time to make the most punishing exams possible. Kirk can see the reasoning behind it: if there are so few senior cadets left, they must be refined even more than usual. They must prove how strong Starfleet is, in the face of their decimation. Otherwise, their enemies will take advantage of the noticeable weakness.

The other students seem to sense it as well, as they strive even harder than before to get the best grades they can. They know the weight that is on their shoulders, and the starships that are desperately waiting for them to graduate, to fill thinned ranks. They are already leap years ahead of previous classes, by virtue of their shared experience, but they know that they must be even better to fill the positions they will be assuming.

As command track, Kirk's exams are even tougher than the norm. To be a leader of men, he needs to know a great deal about everything. Starfleet's goal is to make those who want to be captains into jack-of-all trades. This is so that when they are called upon in impossible situations, they are able to get their ships and their crew out of those situations in the most expedient way possible. That means Kirk is subjected to engineering exams, tactical exams, science exams…languages, physics, warp-core mechanics. He will know the basics in every discipline in Starfleet. His brain is so full of knowledge – it feels like it's going to burst – and that's not even counting his specializations.

When he finally has a moment to breathe after studying for the night, it means it's time for him to grab a couple hours of sleep before the day starts again. He is grateful that finals take only a week, otherwise he and the others like him would collapse under the pressure. And right when everything starts to blur together around the edges, and he can no longer tell which fact is for what test….

They are over. The cadets are granted several weeks' reprieve before the Graduation ceremony. They take a collective sigh, as the instructors buckle in to grade. The senior class is not the only one who took exams, but they are the most important, and the instructor's real work begins when the exams are finished.

Kirk celebrates his freedom by falling immediately into exhausted sleep. His fatigue is so complete he does not register the movement of Bones in and out of their room. All night, and well into the next day, he sleeps: waking only to relieve himself, then dropping back into his bed.

In the afternoon, he jolts suddenly awake. Dragging himself out of the dream, he registers a loud noise somewhere in the vicinity. Groggily, he recognizes it as a knock on the door. He rises, and rubs sleep out of his eyes, as he makes his way to the door.

When he opens it, he stands blinking in confusion. On the other side is an official looking messenger, blank-faced and staring straight ahead.

"Can I help you?" Kirk asks, scratching his head, as he squints through the light filtering around the messenger.

Swift movement, heels clacked together and a precise salute, "Cadet Kirk, your presence is required before Admiral Barnett at 1530 hours." Nothing more is said as the messenger holds out an official looking summons.

Kirk gulps, and takes the slip of paper. "Uh, thank you?"

Then the messenger salutes another time, turns sharply on his heel, and disappears down the corridor.

Kirk closes the door, and turns around to gaze unseeingly at his dorm room. The summons is clutched in his hand, the limb shaking visibly in reaction. His other hand is buried in his hair, as a thousand thoughts flit through his head. He is overcome with fear, and trepidation. He is terrified that they've decided to re-open the tribunal, that they found something else they want to kick him out for – he is so close, so close so close!

There is no trace of the deep sleep he was relishing only minutes before. His mind is completely awake, and on fire. His eyes, unfocused, roam across the windows, the walls, the bed, as he tries to get his thoughts under control. They only focus as they drift across the clock, and the current time registers in his terrified mind.

Thirty minutes? Admiral Barnett only gave him thirty minutes to get to his office. That's barely enough time to prepare himself and get to the other side of the campus where the administrative building is. Kirk can almost swear it was done on purpose: it's surely just enough time to make him feel rushed, but not give him enough leeway to become a complete mess of nerves.

His body leaps into action as his mind races behind. Clothes, clean, dress – in that order. A whirlwind of terrified speed, he flies as quickly as he can to get to the admiral's office on time.

It ends up that he has exactly a minute to spare, and that's with a steady jog through the campus. Kirk pauses before the door, focuses himself, breathes. He doesn't want to look flustered entering the office. When his breathing is once again under his control, steady and normal, he knocks with his knuckles to announce his presence.

Silence in the hall, the rapid beat of his heart the only sound he can hear. He waits, impatiently, until he has counted to forty five in his head. The Admiral has to be in his office, he'd never been late to an appointment before. Kirk raises his hand, prepared to knock again.

That's when he finally gets a response, muffled through the door, "Come in."

Swallowing one more time, he enters the dimly lit room. Barnett is seated behind his desk again, in almost the same pose he was _last_ time Kirk was here. Kirk shudders involuntarily, not relishing the memory. Still unsure of what this meeting will bring.

The Admiral is still, watching Kirk as he stands at attention just inside the door. The easy grace and cocky attitude that are his customary pose are gone, at least for the moment. In their place are a seriousness and calm exterior that most would assume he is incapable of portraying. He allows them their illusions, knowing he can be serious when he needs to be. It just takes more effort than he typically finds worth expending. But in these circumstances, that effort is certainly called for.

"You wished to see me, sir?"

Barnett nods, indicating the chair before his desk with his chin, "I had several things I wanted to discuss with you, yes. And give you some time to absorb them before the graduation ceremony commences."

A butterfly of fear lands in his heart, another in his stomach, as he seats himself before the Admiral. He doesn't like the sound of this, but has no choice. Facing this is much better than running from what the Admiral could say. At least now he'll know, once and for all, that he is no longer wanted here.

The Admiral shifts his attention back to the PADD before him, again reviewing the information contained within.

"What I have here, cadet, are your scores on this last round of final exams. Every single one of them." He says, without looking up.

The skin between Kirk's eyebrows creases, as he considers the words. This is not what he expected, certainly, and his lightning-fast brain is occupied for several moments trying to determine what it could mean. He quickly decides that he doesn't have enough facts to come to any sort of conclusion, and comments with the first safe thought that comes to his head.

"I didn't realize they were finished grading them yet, sir. Especially the ones that were just taken yesterday."

"Oh, most of them are not." And here the Admiral looks up, "But I requested that yours be graded ahead of the rest."

His hand comes up, and he begins rubbing the back of his neck, unconsciously trying to ease the tension that has built there. So many possibilities present themselves to him. They could have been looking for evidence of cheating – he's been accused of falsifying his high test scores before – or, and here he hesitates, they could be rewarding him with the commendation he expected before the tribunal got underway.

"I must confess, sir, that I'm confused. Why? As long as I pass with the rest of my class with high enough scores to graduate, why should it matter?" he carefully skirts around the issue, not-thinking of it even though it continues to push its way through, a single thought – _if_ he's allowed to graduate.

He has the Admiral's full attention now, feeling like a bug beneath a microscope, "We simply needed to confirm that you are really as good as you think you are."

A grin spreads his face at the challenge, "Well? I never disappoint."

An answering smile appears at the edges of Barnett's mouth, "No, you don't. And you certainly didn't here. Your test scores are phenomenal – I have to admit, some of the best we've ever seen pass through these halls."

Kirk allows himself to relax the slightest bit; it certainly doesn't _seem_ like there is any hidden meaning behind those words, or that Barnett is trying to trap him in a lie. And those words certainly don't sound like something that would be said to him right before he gets court marshaled.

"You said 'we'?"

The smile lurking at the corners of Barnett's mouth turns proud, "I meant the other Admirals and myself. We had a decision we had to make, and wanted to be absolutely positive before we jumped in headfirst."

Now he leans forward, curious. The fear passes, moment by moment, as it is replaced with excitement. The Admiral catches his change of attitude, and shifts forward himself as he continues to speak.

"Cadet Kirk, you more than most understand the situation we now find ourselves in. Our strength as a Federation is weakened, our fleet nearly decimated. Our homeworld was challenged and but for one lone ship we would have been obliterated. The Romulans, the Klingons, as well as others, are all waiting. Testing the waters." Here he sighs, weariness apparent before he continues, "We have to show them that we are strong, and still a force to be reckoned with. We have to prove that our rescue was not a fluke. That the young people who are coming up are more than worthy to make up for those that we lost…and that the young man who's quick thinking saved our lives is not going to be wasted."

Kirk doesn't know what to think. He waits at the edge of his chair, all tense expectation. He could not have imagined this sort of conversation when he was on his way to this office…and hope tangles in his heart.

The eyes on him turn serious, focused intently on his face, "Based on a great deal of discussion – since the moment the _Enterprise_ came back, in fact – we have come to a conclusion about how to proceed. We believe it is the best situation for all involved, and it's backed up by some strong statistics."

And here the Admiral pauses, as if he can't quite believe what he's about to say.

"We're giving you the _Enterprise._ "

He feels, suddenly, as if he's full of nothing but helium. The ceiling is so close, close, close and his head is going to explode because it can't contain the joy that is pouring out of him and –

" _BUT,_ " Barnett temporizes, as he sees the heights his simple statement has brought Kirk to, "It is going to be on a temporary basis. For obvious reasons, we cannot give you free reign of the ship, as we would someone who earned the promotion through the normal means. You will have a probationary captaincy of a year, and it will be continued based on your performance."

It does nothing to squelch his enthusiasm, and he feels like jumping up to run, screaming, down the halls in his joy.

"And, also for obvious reasons, no one _else_ must know that it is temporary. For all intents and purposes, everything outside this room will be as if you are on a standard five-year mission. Your crew, your officers, the rest of the planet and the universe will believe that it is as permanent a position as these things are."

Kirk nods furiously, his head full of excitement and elation, his grin so huge and bright it is blinding.

Barnett breaks the flow of words for a moment, returns Kirk's smile, then continues, "And lastly….as the flagship, you'll get your pick of crew. We want her to have the best, to _show_ that we have the best. As such, you will be able to request any personnel you see fit to crew her. But, because they are the best, we can assume that they will have many offers awaiting them. It will be your responsibility to...persuade… those you want to accept the requests. We will not take away their opportunities to choose their destinies. If they feel that the _Enterprise_ would be too much, after what they've already been through, we will not force them. We have already lost so much, and we can't afford anyone breaking under too much pressure. We need every person far too desperately to allow that to happen."

He is still as he absorbs this news, trying to process everything that has happened in a matter of moments. He has gone from the worst terror to the pinnacle of joy. And he recognizes what the risk is. As captain of the _Enterprise_ , the flagship, he will be under a microscope. As the youngest captain, straight out of the Academy, that microscope will be even more intense. He also knows that the flagship is responsible for a multitude of missions the rest of the ships will never even see, that as ambassador of the Federation it will be his duty to complete these duties flawlessly.

And he knows he is up for it. Make his probation a year, a month, a day, and he will be able to _prove_ without a shadow of doubt that he is the only captain the _Enterprise_ will ever need.

Not only that, but they were _giving_ him his choice of crew! After what they had experienced, he had no doubts that they would be just as eager as him to be back aboard the _Enterprise_.

"Admiral, I thank you and the others for this opportunity. I will live up to your expectations."

Now it is Barnett's turn to grin, as he responds, "Cadet Kirk, I have no doubt in your abilities. I have been following your time here at Starfleet Academy closely." He waves his hand at the PADD full of test results before him, "I didn't need all these to prove that you were worthy of the task. I have been telling them for weeks that there is no one else we can give the ship to."

He reaches into the drawer under his desk, and pulls out a second PADD, "Knowing you like I think I do, I've prepared this list for you."

Kirk accepts it with a nod of thanks, a question in his eyes.

"It's a list of the 400 crew that served with you aboard the _Enterprise_. I know you are aware of the names of the bridge officers, but this includes everyone down to the busboy in the mess hall. It also details their most likely locations for the next week, to give you a chance of finding them all and convincing them to come with you. Might I suggest getting some of them to help you persuade the rest?"

The grin is plastered on his face again, a few key names already at the front of his mind, "Thank you, Admiral. I'm sure this list'll come in handy."

"Before you go, I should also mention that beyond just getting them to verbally accept a position on your crew, you will also have to submit formal requests through all the authorized channels. Requests they will have to accept before your ship leaves Spacedock."

Kirk grimaces at the added work, but nods, "I would expect as much. Unfortunately, sir, sometimes Starfleet is too in love with their paperwork!"

He gets shot a look, but his answering smile is unapologetic. Barnett stands, and walks towards the door, opening it.

"If you have any further questions, cadet, do not hesitate to bring them to my attention. But I have a lot of work I must complete in the next few weeks, and I have to begin now."

He follows the Admiral to the door, snapping off another one of his salutes before slipping out the door.

And off to find Chekov.

(*)

He finds Chekov in the most likely spot possible: the math lab. Even though finals are over, there are many projects throughout campus that need finishing, and the touches of the senior cadets. Kirk has never been inside this inner sanctum of the mathematics majors, and is awed by what he sees. Simply a set of interconnecting, domed rooms, every surface but the floor is covered in electronic interfaces. The dark screens are covered in green scrawl – what Kirk can only assume are minute calculations drawn in haste. It gives the laboratory an eerie, otherworldly glow that lends to the air of mystery about the place.

Chekov is off to one side, at the center of a group of older, though junior, cadets. He is murmuring quietly to the others – no one seems to want to break the reverent stillness of the complex – and writing frantically on the interface before him with the stylus clutched in his hand. One of the nearby cadets interrupts the flow of his words with a clipped question. Chekov's response is to shake his head empathetically, and with a practiced twitch of his wrist the wall before him shifts, and one of the upper interfaces slides through its fellows until it is at head level.

Kirk watches with a sure smile on his face as his friend refutes the other cadet's claim, succinctly trouncing any argument the girl may have brought up. And Chekov does it so innocently, so excitedly, that there is no trace of frustration or anger on the girl's face. She is just as eager as he is to come to the end of their tangled logarithms.

Their enthusiasm makes Kirk hesitate. He doesn't want to interrupt their thought processes, but it is all he can do to stop himself from shouting the news for the world to hear. Chekov _must_ know, and he must know now. There is no time, and Kirk needs his help. He has three hundred and ninety nine more people he needs to contact as quickly as possible.

He strides forward, being careful not to bump the sensitive surfaces surrounding him. At the wall formed by their backs, he is momentarily thwarted in his mission. They are all bent forward, focused on the numbers coming to life before them. Kirk can now hear Chekov's excited chitter, and is stunned when he realizes the whiz kid is speaking not solely in Basic, but a pidgin mixture of English and his native Russian. Even more amazing is that the cadets surrounding him seem to be following what is being said, and their low responses are in the same jumble of languages.

Kirk shakes his head softly in admiration: he never thought that Chekov could have this kind of effect on people. These cadets certainly never had any experience with Russian before meeting the prodigy, and now they understand dozens of complex terminologies.

Pitching his voice to carry, but only as far as the small group, he interrupts their hurried conversation, "Chekov? Can I pull you away for just a moment?"

Instantaneously, all participants cease their discussion, and many pairs of eyes turn to regard him angrily at his intrusion. Touchy math students. Well, all but one; Chekov continues chattering to himself for several sentences before he notices that no one is paying attention to him anymore.

When he turns around and sees Kirk, a smile lights up his face, "Kep-Kirk! I did not expect to see you here!" and he begins to push himself through his little group of followers, who seem to give Kirk even angrier glares – which he didn't believe possible only a moment before.

Kirk resolutely ignores their animosity, and focuses instead on the energetic boy in front of him. Resists, again, the urge to mess up Chekov's curls.

"Can I talk to you a minute?" he repeats, knowing Chekov didn't hear him before.

The younger boy nods, "Zhat would be fine." turns to his classmates, "I will be back." And trots off to the opposite side of the room, Kirk following jovially at his heels.

Kirk gathers himself, as the other boy waits expectantly. He reaches out a hand to gently touch the green writing on the walls, momentarily distracted by its brightness. The monitors are cool to the touch, and while vibrant do not have the hum of _alive_ that his lady does.

Still looking at the wall, he addresses Chekov's patient waiting, "What would you do if I said to you….that you may have a chance to get back aboard the _Enterprise_?"

Hope flashes across the bright face, a desperate desire more wishful than Kirk could have asked for, "It is not possible. I hawe not been requested by zhe Keptan of her crew. Not zhat I know who that Keptan _is_ , but I am only an ensign."

Here a bit of Kirk's grin leaks out…he really needs to practice this serious delivery, or he's going to give it away and spoil all the fun for himself, "What if I also told you that I know who the captain is for our fair lady, _and_ that said captain is going to formally request your presence aboard the _Enterprise_ as her navigator?"

Chekov's curls wobble as he slowly shakes his head, "Zhen I would tell you zhat you are crazy, and whoever zhis Keptan is, is also crazy. Zhere are many more, higher qualified, navigators in Starfleet to be on zhe flagship."

"But I can't imagine having anyone else navigating us but you." He says, all trace of humor erased from his voice, as he watches the genius for his reaction.

He doesn't have to wait long before the words sink in, and the cycling emotions on Chekov's face are almost comical to watch. Confused, dumbfounded, amazed, contemplative…and then ecstatic. Chekov lets out a squeal – a _squeal_ – bigger then Kirk's own internal cheers at the news, and jumps up and down like a schoolgirl.

"Zhey didn't! Zhey couldn't have! It is not possible! But it _is_! You would not lie to me about somezhing like zhis!"

Serious, for just a moment, "Never, Chekov." And then the grin on Kirk's face matches the younger boy's.

"I can't beliewe it! I get to be on zhe _Enterprise_ again! Of course I will come!" by now he is loud enough for everyone in the complex to hear him, and his colleagues are coming to find out what the shouting is about, and congratulating him on his assignment. All traces of resentment from the other cadets have completely disappeared, and they are congratulating Kirk as well.

Stopping his celebratory antics, Chekov turns to his friend, "But what about zhe others? Are Sulu and Uhura and Spock and all zhe rest coming with us too? It will not be zhe same without zhem."

Kirk nods his confirmation, "That's what I need your help on." He pulls the PADD Barnett gave him out of his pocket, and shows it to Chekov as the celebration continues around them.

"I need to divide and conquer here. There are four hundred people I need to approach and convince, and only two week to do it." he says, hoping he'll have enough time to get the formal requests in and signed before the graduation ceremony is set to begin, "Every one of them served on the _Enterprise_ with us, and I want all of them back. What I needed to know is if you can talk to the other engineers and get them to accept for me."

The curls bobble in comprehension, "Of course! It will be fun to get to tell zhem zhe good news!"

"Great. That's what I was hoping you'd say." He glances at his watch, "and now I have to go find Sulu, while I still know where to _find_ Sulu, and tell him the good news."

Unexpectedly, there are arms wrapped tightly around him, and a face pressed against his chest in a fierce hug. "I am so unbeliewably happy! Zhank you! I am going to be zhe best Navigator you could ever hawe, yes!"

This time he gives in to the desire, and the curls are in an even more tangled mess, "I know you will. That's why it can't be anyone but you."

"Now, enjoy the rest of your celebration, and I'm off to get Sulu's help."

(*)

Sulu is in the hangar, covered in grease and currently occupied beneath his special aircraft. Like any good pilot, he does most of the maintenance on his ship himself. Thankfully, Kirk knows which day of the week that maintenance is scheduled; it would be much harder to find the Japanese if he was up in the air. And he was _not_ going hunting for the man in the botany lab.

Grinning, Kirk tugs on one of the booted feet sticking out from underneath the ship, pulling the pilot out into the open. On his dolly, Sulu slides into view, blinking in confusion at Kirk.

"Hey man, what's up?" his face scrunches, like he can't quite make up his mind if he wants to be happy to see Kirk, or grumpy at the interruption.

"I was just thinking, and decided to head by to ask you a question." Kirk temporizes, grinning as the grumpiness wins out in Sulu's expression.

"And? You got my attention." The pilot's arms cross over his chest, as he waits expectantly.

This was more fun than it had any right to be. "I was thinking about graduation, and how we all are receiving our requests from the ships that need our help. And…I was wondering if you'd gotten anything from the _Enterprise_ …you know, big bad pilot that you are and all."

There is definite crankiness on the Asian face now, "No. I haven't."

He tilts his head to the side, watching closely, "If you did, would you accept it?"

The brows meet over narrowed eyes, and then Sulu glances away, saying quietly, "No."

Surprise flashes through him. This was something Kirk certainly didn't expect, and scratches his head with a sheepish grin, "Why not?"

Sulu glances at him, then away again, mumbles, "'Cause it wouldn't be the same. That time was special because of who was there, and I wouldn't be able to accept a position as part of _Enterprise_ 's crew unless, at the very least…." And here he hesitates, as if he doesn't want to admit what's coming next, "You were her captain."

And his eyes close. Kirk does a perfect imitation of Spock, both eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. Sulu risks opening one eye, sees Kirk's expression, and closes it quickly again.

"Damnit. I knew that would inflate your ego too much." He begins pushing himself, with his feet, in the direction of the ship, "And before I say something else I'm gonna regret, I'm getting back to work."

Kirk stops him with a heel on the dolly, "What if I told you that's coming true, too?"

Eyes dart to his, skepticism apparent. They take in his wide grin, the genuine pleasure apparent on his face.

"No. They wouldn't be that crazy, to let _you_ captain a ship again." Those same eyes watch as his grin gets even wider, "They _are_ that crazy!"

He sits up, euphoria spreading through his face, "So you are! And you want me? Hell, _yes_! Who else is gonna let me try the crazy maneuvers I want to?"

(*)

Somehow he knew he'd end up here. He's been avoiding it since he got back, but now he has no choice. All of the cadets at the linguistics lab had told him that she could be found here.

He presses his fingertips against the door, breathing in her scent. Even in the hallway, weeks later, she lingers. Her delicious smell had never been that obvious when he had been with her, but now that she was gone it was undeniably there. He hated it, but didn't want it to ever disappear.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he knocks on the door. He has a purpose for being here, and he wants it to be done so he can leave this place and these memories behind him.

Uhura opens her dorm room door, her customary ponytail swishing back and forth from her forward momentum. She smiles tentatively at Kirk, standing in a faded pair of jeans and an old T-shirt. It does nothing to diminish her beauty, and he can't help but return her smile.

"Hey you." He refrains from using the first name he now knows. He wants to be on her good side right now.

"Hey Kirk," she responds. She knows how hard it is for him to be there, and doesn't usher him inside. Instead, she rests against the doorframe, her delicate cheek pressed gently against the side.

He focuses on her face, resolutely not-looking at the room behind her – and the bed empty of everything including sheets. Kirk cannot comprehend how she can stand to stay in the same room, after…after.

"I have a surprise for you." He states, simply, not in a mood to mince words anymore.

She waits patiently, her temper seemingly mellowed after their shared experience. He is doing better than he expected. The door has not been slammed in his face, and he hasn't made any lame attempts to pick her up.

He turns his attention away from her face, and the darkness behind her, instead rubbing his fingertips against the doorframe she rests upon.

"I had a meeting with Barnett today." A quick glance at her eyes, then away, "He told me that the Admiralty was having a hard time deciding what to do with – us – after everything that happened. And that they had finally come to a decision."

"Not a surprise. They have a lot of challenges they're facing at the moment. Hard to decide which choice will leave us the strongest." she responds, not taking her eyes off his face. He shifts uncomfortably under her regard. Damn linguists, and their excellent understanding of body language. She was trying to figure out what he was going to say before he said it.

So he beats her to the punch; "They're making me captain of the _Enterprise._ "

He's watching her closely, so he sees the widening of her eyes and the flash of surprise. She brings up a hand to cover the gasp that escapes from her mouth.

"And I want you to be my Communications Officer. I know we haven't seen eye to eye on everything, but hey, that's part of what makes me like you so much." Now he grins – and really, he can't stop it if he wanted to. It's only been several hours, and the news is still amazing to him.

"Of course!" and she claps her hands together in her happiness, "I would be honored to accept."

He warms inside at her acceptance. She was the only one he was really worried about, considering their turbulent past together. Not that he was going to _stop_ teasing her continuously, just…not today.

For the third time that day, he digs out his borrowed PADD, and goes over what he needs from his Bridge Officers.

(*)

After hunting down as many more people as he can, he decides to give up for the night. He hasn't stopped moving since he was awoken this morning, and he's ready for a break. Stopping by the mess hall, he picks up one of their ready-made food packages and makes his way to the dorms.

Entering his own rooms in the building, he finds the lights are on and Bones is nowhere in sight. But Kirk can hear singing coming from the direction of their shared bathroom, and the sound of water falling.

A tired smile shows a flash of teeth. This was going to be fun.

" _BONES_!" He yells, striding to the bathroom, "I have something to tell you!"


	4. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** You know Herman, my Monster Plotbunny? Yeah, he had a lot of fun with his angst stick of DOOM with this chapter. And that's all the warning you get! XD

**A/N:** You know Herman, my Monster Plotbunny? Yeah, he had a lot of fun with his angst stick of DOOM with this chapter. And that's all the warning you get! XD

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Four

* * *

**

Surprisingly, finding and questioning everyone is not as complicated as it should be. Every day, Kirk receives a list from his Bridge Officers of those people that have agreed. And every night, he spends several hours submitting the formal requests as the acceptances come in. All the paperwork is giving him a headache, but Bones has already resolutely refused to help him with it. His response had been something along the lines of "It is the captain's responsibility, and as captain, you're damn well gonna do it, if I have to duct tape you to the chair to get it done!"

Sometimes Kirk hated Bones. Not in the deep abiding way he hated his stepdad, or the clashing of minds that was him and Spock. Bones knew him far too well and could take advantage of that any time he wanted to. But paperwork is _horrible_...!

At least he was getting help with recruiting his crew. If he had to talk to everyone himself, he'd never get it done in the weeks before graduation. And by graduation, the ones that would be left would have already accepted positions on other ships. With this in mind, paperwork is the price he is willing to pay to get the crew that he wants. Not only is he grateful for his Bridge Officer's assistance, he is incredibly indebted to Barnett for the list of locations: it is proving invaluable in locating the cadets.

The only person it doesn't seem to help him find is Spock. Kirk has been trying for _days_ to locate the half-Vulcan, to no avail. He has checked the Phonology classrooms multiple times, the science labs – the science cadets were even more angry at intrusion then the physics ones – and the computer programming building so many times he has lost count.

It is at the science labs that he finally runs into Spock, completely by accident. He is there to ask a question for Sulu – who is too busy to come himself – and finds Spock bent over a microscope in the botany lab. The Science Officer is intent on the specimen before him, alternating between viewing down the microscope and dictating his notes to the PADD beside him in an emotionless voice. Strange for the bustling lab, there is a wide berth of emptiness around him. No cadets flying back and forth, nearly dropping their experiments in their haste to get to destinations. No eager students anxious to help, no partners preparing other experiments alongside him. The Vulcan is alone at his task, and Kirk feels a stab of sorrow at his isolation.

That is, until he asks Spock to be his First Officer, and the response is not at all what he expected.

"I will have to consider your proposal, along with the others I have received. At this time, I must come to a conclusion as to which position would be most beneficial to all parties involved." And here he stops, and Kirk can swear the bastard is laughing at him inside, though there is certainly no outward indication, "After all, that would be the only logical course of action."

Kirk lets his head hang, rubbing the base of his neck because the damn Vulcan is starting to make him tense, "We – _I_ – can't imagine having anyone else as First Officer on the ship. And, after how well we worked together on the Narada, I didn't think you'd want to go anywhere else, either!"

A fractional shift of movement, as Spock tilts his head to the side, "But as a Vulcan, I am not swayed by simple emotional responses. No matter how above satisfactory a team we made, I must treat all offers equally. Would I be remiss in assuming you would make your decision on who is to be your First Officer, and your Science Officer, based upon the same unbiased stance?"

Damn prickly bastard, now he was trying to insinuate that Kirk wasn't doing his job – "Of _course_ I am. And the 'logical' decision I came to was that Starfleet couldn't be better served then having the best Science Officer on her flagship! If Pike had chosen you to be his second in command, there must have been a reason!" though he was beginning to question the soundness of Pike's decision….

A raised eyebrow, "You have my assurance – Captain – that as soon as I make my decision, you will be the first person I will inform. I am well aware of the need to fill your Bridge Officer positions in a timely manner."

Kirk could tell it was the best he was going to get. "Fine. But as an added incentive – even though I 'know' you're not swayed by emotional responses – Uhura accepted the position as Communications Officer. So if you accept someone else's request, you'll be separated from your girlfriend. Which they typically don't enjoy." He knows he is being childish, but at the moment he doesn't care. For good measure, he puts on his Chekov pout. It needs some practice, at the very least.

Spock is unaffected, by either the pout or the statement, "I am aware of Lieutenant Uhura's assignment. She informed me several days ago of her decision to join your crew." He shifts minutely, indicating he is ready to step away, "Now if you'll excuse me, there are several experiments that require my attention, and you have interrupted my work."

"Yeah, yeah. That's all I needed to ask you." He grumbles, as he waves – Spock gives him a minute nod goodbye – and leaves.

He is left with a bitter taste in the back of his throat, unexpected after the closeness he had felt during their frantic mission onboard the Narada. And Kirk sighs to himself, resolutely deciding not to give up on Spock like it seems everyone else has. He has _seen_ what the half-Vulcan is capable of, when he gives himself the chance.

* * *

It is the last time he will ever put it on. It is laid out on his bed, ready for him, waiting. The fact makes him ecstatically happy – the damn thing is uncomfortable – but leaves him with sadness just the same. It is a symbol of the best thing he's done in his life, the only good thing really. The red color is distinctive, marking him as a member of a unique group of individuals. Today, he is leaving the red behind forever – in favor of gold.

He runs his hand over the familiar contours of the fitted fabric of his Academy uniform, and then dresses himself in it for one final appearance. This is the most important day of his life, and he wants to look his best. Everyone that he cares about is going to be there; Bones, Pike, the people that are fast becoming friends. There is a touch of sadness because Gaila will not be joining in the festivities, but only a shadow of the sorrow that was there weeks ago. He is unabashedly _happy_ for the first time he can remember…ever. She would never have begrudged him that.

First there is the ceremony, and then later that night the crew – _his_ crew – will all be going to one of the bars downtown to celebrate in their own way. Uhura even promised to drag Spock along, even though he – _still_ – wasn't technically part of the crew. Maybe reuniting with them all would help him make his final decision. Kirk is starting to get worried; there is only so much time before he is given his first mission, and he can't leave spacedock without a First Officer. He is also becoming frustrated. There is no one else he is even _considering_ for the position, and Spock shouldn't have any other options that can compare to _Enterprise_ , anyway.

Spock is the only one that has not given Kirk a response. There are some that decided not to join the crew after all, but those he understands: they had lost friends aboard the _Enterprise_ , or felt they wanted a different experience than the flagship could give them. But to not make a decision _at all_? The suspense is going to kill him, and he's still not sure if that's not Spock's intention after all. Especially considering that the Vulcan _had_ tried to kill him. Twice.

Shaking his head, he checks himself in the mirror. Satisfied with what he sees – he is as handsome and dashing as ever – he makes his way to the assembly hall.

To be accepted, to be _recognized_ in front of all his superiors and his peers. He would never have imagined it happening, three years ago. And if he's honest with himself, he still can't imagine it. But it happens.

Admiral Pike, the man he looks up to most in this world, tells Kirk he is proud of him. Gives him a medal, and formally gives him captaincy of the _Enterprise_. And when he turns to face his peers, the entire assembly hall stands on its feet and shouts. All for him. The screw-up who could never do anything right, back in Iowa. Tears sting his eyes, and he has to blink them back, as he _smiles_ so big it feels like his teeth are going to pop out.

His crew, full of pride and glory in their uniforms, stands together and cheers the loudest for him. Uhura, Bones, Sulu – Scotty! – and Chekov lead the rest in a chant of his name, and he thinks he's going to die from delight. No one has the right to be this happy. Kirk scans the crowd before him, looking for one face in particular. The person has no reason to be seated with the group of graduating cadets – he did, after all, graduate several years ago – but he should at least be at the ceremony. Kirk isn't quite full of himself enough to assume that Spock would be here for his part in the ceremony, but he would think that he'd want to see his girlfriend's shining moment. But the young Vulcan is nowhere to be seen, and it causes a heartbeat of anger in Kirk. One that quickly disappears, powerless against the joy washing through him.

The rest of the ceremony is a blur, as everyone is called one by one to receive their diplomas. Cheering, crying, and hugging abound as their excitement overflows. It is infectious, and when they eventually emerge from the assembly hall, the entire Academy seems like it has awoken at last. The junior cadets are participating in the well-wishing, the students and teachers taking a well-deserved holiday. Their sorrow, their loss, is finally forgotten, and the day shines clear and bright and unblemished.

Kirk is walking back to his dorm room, intent on retrieving several things before he reunites with the rest of the crew at the bar. The sun is beginning to set, sending soft rays of light twinkling through the buildings of the campus. It is a fresh spring evening, and the world at that moment is beautiful. Bones is at his side, the two of them in perfect camaraderie, exchanging light comments and jokes about the day as they thread their way through the buildings.

Kirk's thoughts are on the moment, and the immediate future. For once he has let go of the anger and frustration that are always hidden under his surface, and he is truly himself. At his ease, he radiates calm and assurance, as opposed to the cockiness and sharp-witted antagonism that are his typical aura.

They are walking in the pathways between buildings, for the most part the only occupants of this part of the campus. Everyone else is gathered around the assembly hall, or making their way to other celebrations.

It is easy to spot the couple, off to the side of the walkway. They have a small map spread out before them, and are arguing frantically, pointing this way and that, down the rows of pathways before them. The woman is slightly shorter than the man, her face beautiful but reflecting a deep sadness, and her graying blonde hair is pulled up into a tight bun. His gray hair is closely cropped, and he has a scowl marring his otherwise attractive features.

When he catches sight of them, Kirk freezes in place. Bones continues walking forward several paces before realizing that his friend is no longer at his side. He turns to see why Kirk has stopped, and freezes when he sees the expression on the younger man's face.

"W-Winona?" Kirk lets out, brokenly. His face reflects far too much, a lost little boy whose hope was killed far too many times.

It is the man who responds first.

"Ahhh, Jimbo! There you are! Just the person we were looking for!" he does a very good job of acting convincingly happy, but Kirk can hear the lie under his words.

A tick begins in Kirk's cheek, and he throttles down the anger that explodes within him at the sight of the man. The happiness he was feeling just a breath before has been shattered, and in its place lies an enraged, ferocious lion in his belly.

His mother looks up from the map, guilt and surprise both evident on her face. He barely spares a glance for her, all of his anger focused on the obvious target. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bones shift indecisively from foot to foot. What little he has told his friend prepares him for what can be expected from this encounter, but what will probably occur is more than Kirk wants him to know.

"Bones, I'll meet you at the room in ten minutes. Can you get what I needed ready for me? They're waiting for us at the party." The words are stilted, the anger banished for a moment as he addresses his friend.

The indecision is still there, but now for a different reason, "You sure, kid?" a glance at the two huddled off to the side, "I can stay, if you need me."

Kirk simply shakes his head, not wanting to say too much in front of him. It is there, there _there_ , and it's begging to come out. Bones nods, gives his arm a squeeze, and retreats to their room. He levels a parting glower at the couple before he disappears around the corner.

They do not even see it, their attention on Kirk as it is. Winona steps forward, making as if she wants to wrap her arms around her boy in a hug. She gives up, seeing the expression on his face, and instead wraps her arms around herself. She shivers, even though the air is warm; he is not.

"We saw you on the TV." She murmurs quietly, to break the incredibly uncomfortable silence that has fallen. His eyes slowly turn towards her, the only part of him that is not still as a statue. They narrow slightly, trying to hide the extra burst of anger that is threatening to consume him from the inside. He is literally vibrating with the effort to contain his rage.

"Is _that_ why you came?" he asks, his voice low and lethal, not even bothering to conceal the dagger that he wields in his tone, " _You saw me on TV_ and after three years you decide to finally make a visit?"

The man recognizes the threat in Kirk's voice, steps between him and his mother, "Now Jimbo, there's no reason to talk to your mother like that. We were proud of you, and came to congratulate you. We knew that after all the effort we put into raising you, you'd eventually grow up to be something."

Quicker than the blink of an eye, that deadly focus is directed at the man, "Oh, really, _Frank_." He says it like the curse it is, "That's all you think about, isn't it? It's all about what you get out of this? Now I'm not the fuck up you have to hide, I'm something you can tote around in front of your buddies at the bar and tell stories about?"

The man spares a quick glance behind him, then gives Kirk a look that promises he'll regret his words. But finally – _finally! –_ what he thinks no longer matters. What _she_ thinks no longer matters, and Kirk's tongue is free to say what he has wanted to for fifteen long years.

A sharp gesture in front of him, his bladed hand slicing through any protest the man was forming on his lips. "And after _three years_ with no contact, the first thing you say to me is 'we saw you on TV.' Not 'we missed you' or 'we were thinking about you' – simply, 'you weren't worth our time, but now that you're kinda famous, we just wanted to confirm that we didn't fuck up too badly.'" He stops to catch his breath, forcibly ignoring the distraught woman behind the man, as something else occurs to him "You don't even know what today is, do you?"

The confusion that appears on their faces is all the answer he needs. He lets out a burst of sound, too bitter and full of anguish to ever be considered a laugh, "Un-fucking-believable."

Now the woman steps forward, her chin jutting forward in her stubbornness, "We came because George called. And I didn't have your phone number here….we didn't have any other way to contact you, to tell you…." Her voice trails off, as her tongue ties and fills up her mouth. Nothing can be said about the rest of what he laid bare; she cannot refute the truth in his speech.

His eyes mist over, as momentarily he is again a twelve year old boy, desperate to keep his only real family from leaving him behind – a fierce hug, a strangled cry, and an empty place opening in his heart that has never been filled.

He viscously crushes that desperation beneath an iron heel. No. It was George's decision to leave him behind, George's choice to never contact him – not even a phone call from the brother he loved with all his heart. George left him to fend for himself, left him with this _monster_ and the person who was supposed to protect him from all harm – but didn't.

"And? Just because he decides to finally contact us after thirteen years of nothing, I'm supposed to stop everything and jump for joy? What do you people think I _am_?"

"Now just you wait one minute here, Jimbo! You have no right to speak to us like that, not after we spent all that time and money getting over here to see you –" the man is starting to inflate with indignant rage of his own, and Kirk lets out a snarl at his words.

"That's right, don't lie to her face. The only thing I've _ever_ been to you was time and money! That's right, _Frank_ , let her know _exactly_ how you feel for once. We can stop this bullshit with you pretending you thought we were anything but an obstacle in your way." He stops himself with a visible effort, some part of himself still hoping for…something. It's been so long, he has forgotten what he was hoping for.

She steps forward, one hand reaching towards her boy. There is such sadness on her face – "Jimmy, don't say things like that! You know you mean so much, to both of us. It's just been…hard…these past several years."

And he takes that hope he's had, and he snaps it himself. Inside his head, there is the sound of glass shattering as he finally admits to himself that his family will never be what he wants it to. A breath of fresh air follows the sound, clean that begins to touch all the twisted, diseased places he has clung to.

"And you. _Always. Defending. Him._ You're my mother. Why would you never act like my mother? I was taught that mothers are supposed to love their children more than their own lives, protect them with their last breaths, that they are the most precious pieces of their existence. And all you could ever did was try to fill the hole that Dad left, and listen to the lies this _bastard_ told you." His glare is meant for the man, and then he shifts his attention back to her, his lip curled.

" _Why did you always think we would lie_?" desperation enters his voice, a plea for his mother's understanding, that was never answered, "Did we ever give you a reason to think we would make something like that up? We never lied to you, _ever,_ about _anything_. And you _still_ took his word above that of your own children. But you were never _there_. You would never see what happened all those years when it was just him, and us. Sure, he got smart and learned how to hurt us without leaving bruises but _some scars go deeper than bone_."

He chokes on the words, and looks away, no longer able to continue speaking. The hand she had stretched towards him has been balled into a fist, and she is biting it, tears streaking down her face. The subject of his tirade is now also radiating a potent rage, full and flaring and evident for the first time in front of this woman. Kirk spares a thought that he should be feeling triumph at her witnessing at last, but it is too little, and far too late.

And just as sudden as it filled him, the rage bleeds out through the ground. It feels _so good_ to let it go, and so he does. As the anger that consumed him for so many years dissipates into the ether, he finds his voice again.

"You know what…you're not worth it. I tried _so hard_ and you didn't see. All those years of trying to get you both to love me, wasted. I'm not gonna care anymore." Kirk straightens, taking control of his life and pulling himself out of the rags of his childhood, "You hear me? I'm not gonna waste another moment of my time thinking about you or wondering why I wasn't good enough. I have things that actually matter, now. I have people that love me for who I am, who want to be with me. I don't need you."

The words are the last key in the lock, and the chains fall away. He repeats the words, wonder evident in his voice, "I. Don't. Need. You."

A strangled gasp, a choking sob of such heart wrenching regret pours forth from the woman. But Kirk feels nothing as he watches them for a moment more, sees the man enfolding her in his arms as she breaks down. His observation is purely clinical; at this point, they elicit as much emotional response as any complete strangers would.

Not caring what they have to say in response, he strides away past them, his pace strong and fast. He shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his uniform; if he crosses paths with anyone, he does not want them to see how hard he is shaking.

Just a few more buildings and he is safely in the dorm. He takes the steps two at a time, eyes misted over but not needing to see to make it to their room. Bones has left the door open for him, but it barely registers as he tumbles inside. Kirk doesn't recognize how, but finds himself a pile on the floor, gasping through clenched teeth. _He. Will. Not. Care._

The click of the door closing behind him, then strong arms are grasping his shoulders. Like a child, he is curled against the familiar form, his head tucked under Bones' chin.

"Shhhhhh, kid, it's ok. You're allowed to cry, I promise. No matter what happens here, you know I won't ever tell anyone else. You don't have to hide from me." A tender hand runs through his hair, the other one making soothing motions on his shoulders. A father's love, extended to include him in his heart.

Kirk shakes his head, not wanting to show weakness; he must be strong or they'll take advantage. He can never be himself, feel anything but the arrogance that is safe to let others see.

And then a kiss is pressed against the crown of his head, fierce and bright, like a mark branding him with Bones' protection. His shields are undone, they evaporate as thoroughly as if they were never more than figments of his imagination.

He _clings_ as torrents of tears are shed from his soul, all the heartache buried deep inside since he realized he'd never have a real family coming out out out and there is no stopping it.

Not that he wants to, now. He is…free.


	5. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******CONTEST******

******CONTEST******

 _  
**This Contest has a winner! Lita of Jupiter!**   
_

I have a contest for my lovely readers! This may be a shameless plug for more reviews, _BUT_ it has something in it for you guys, too .

 _IF_ anyone can tell me where the title "The Flavor of Laughter" came from, and finish the line…they will get to read the upcoming chapter before anyone else does! This is one of my favorite lines I've ever ever read in a book (HINT!), and I'm curious to see if anyone else can place it. It also is kinda spoiler-y for a plot thread that hasn't been introduced into the story yet ^_^

This contest will run until someone gets the right answer, at which point I'll put notification in this chapter, and the chapter posted after the answer is found. To submit your guesses, just PM me or put it as a review. Extra cookies of adoration if you include actual reviews with your guesses XD

******/CONTEST******

 **A/N** : I know the last chapter was terribly angsty, but I promise it doesn't stay that way XD In fact, this chapter brings it back to the cheerful side of things. Though I make no promises for future chapters… .

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 **Chapter Five

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**

When he awakens in the morning, it is to a head trying to split itself in two. Directly down the middle. With a nail file. They had made it to the bar for the celebration the night before, and now Kirk is thoroughly regretting it. Not the going itself; he had been able to cast off any lingering feelings from his encounter, and he had genuinely enjoyed himself. His officers are just so full of life – even quiet, sullen Spock – that he couldn't help but unwind around them. Which led to much laughter, and a few too many drinks.

Typically, too many drinks are never a problem Kirk has to deal with. But this morning there is a meeting scheduled with Admiral Barnett at 0800 hours, and he finds it _far_ too early, especially considering the hangover.

Even greater offense is given when Bones _whistles_ as he walks over to the window by Kirk's bed, and opens the curtains. A harsh ray of sunlight streaks in and attacks Kirk's pillow, haloing his head in golden light.

He lets out a squeal, scrunching his eyes up and trying to hide hide hide under his sheets.

" _Bones!_ " he complains, petulant as any child awoken before they're ready.

"Come on kid, you know as well as I do how important this meeting is. Up and at-'em!" and Kirk can swear Bones is enjoying this a bit too much. He rolls over, away from the offending light, and hunches his shoulders.

Before he has a chance to defend himself, he is viciously assaulted for the second time in as many minutes. He lets out another squeal, furiously batting away Bones' hands and the hypo that has just violated the sanctity of his neck.

"Ow. Ow. _Ow._ " Kirk turns to his friend with an abused expression, Chekov-pout in full force, "I don't even know what that was _for_. Aren't I suffering enough?" he complains, as he rubs the offended patch of skin on his neck.

"My own special remedy. You should be feeling better in a couple minutes." Bones quips, before he trots off to whatever dark evil place he appeared from.

Kirk gives up on the last few minutes of sleep that were stolen from him, and sits up in his bed while he tries to process what the whole encounter was about. All he knows is that his neck _hurts_ and it's not fair and – his head no longer feels like it's going to explode. The light is no longer piercing directly to the back of his eyeballs. His tongue feels the proper size, and no longer has the texture of sandpaper. And now he _knows_. The bastard has been keeping this secret from him for _three years_! Bones had a hangover remedy, has been using it on himself, and was just watching Kirk suffer after their drinking binges. Injustice!

He grins to himself, really feeling _much_ better as he plots his revenge, and goes about beginning his day.

(*)

"You do know why you're here this morning, don't you, Captain?" he is asked, and his chest inflates a little at the title. He can definitely get used to that.

"Yes, sir, I believe the Admiralty has finally decided what the _Enterprise_ 's 'official' maiden voyage is going to be?" Kirk replies, easy confidence broadcasted in his posture. In his mind play flashes of death-defying stunts and dangerous missions deep into the heart of unknown territory.

Barnett nods, seriousness on his face and in his eyes.

"We have." he simply says, and passes Kirk the PADD that was sitting on his desk.

He takes possession of it with excited hands, skimming through the data contained within. Vulcan survivors….escorts…building supplies…. His fingers stop their hasty scrolling of the data as the implications sink in. He doesn't look up, as he hides the confusion from his voice, "Sir, this looks like orders to bring the Vulcan survivors to their newly selected homeworld, and help them with any preparations that they need for the time span of…" and he pauses as he finds the pertinent entry, "a month."

Only then does he look up at the Admiral, allowing some of his confusion to enter his expression. He has the flagship of the entire fleet, the best crew that Starfleet can put together, and their first mission is….babysitting the remains of the Vulcan race. All hopes of a daring and exciting year are dashed to pieces, and he feels horribly let down.

This really is not fair, not in the least bit. At all.

"That is correct, Captain." He puts emphasis on the word, perhaps in response to what Kirk can't keep out of his tone, "As our first and strongest allies, the survival of the remaining Vulcans is our top priority. With so few of them left, they desperately need assistance getting set up on the planet they have chosen. As a gesture of good faith and trustworthiness, we are sending the flagship to show how important we consider their continuing support."

Kirk squirms uncomfortably in his chair; he can see the Admiral's point. But _still_ …how is he supposed to prove that he's ready for the Captaincy if all he gets to do is tame missions that don't show off his strengths?

"Not only that, but we must show our enemies that we defend our own. We cannot simply send the Vulcans off and expect them to be fine. We assume that there is going to be some testing of the waters, some stealth infiltrations perpetrated to see if the Vulcans can be picked off completely while they are still vulnerable. Your mission, while primarily diplomatic in nature, is also vital to the defense of our allies." the Admiral continues, again bringing his point home to the reluctant newly-appointed captain.

Well, at least there is the promise of some kind of action. He straightens in his chair, effectively squelching his frustrations, "Yes sir, I understand."

"Good. I thought you would."

(*)

He is still in a daze when he meets everyone at the appointed hour, in a little bistro across from the campus. They have pulled several of the small tables together, and all five of them are chatting together. There are still signs of awkwardness in their interactions, but as each day goes by they are more and more comfortable in each other's presence. Kirk stands at the doorway, observing them together for a few moments more, before making his way to the chair left empty for him.

Chekov is the first to see him, and literally bounces up and down in his chair like a puppy in his excitement. "Keptan! We hawe been waiting, so patiently!"

Their conversation comes to an abrupt end, as they all lean excitedly forward. Kirk knows what they are waiting for, but doesn't know quite how to put it.

"Are ye gonna tell us? I dinnae think I can handle any more!" Scotty complains, even more eagerness in him than in Chekov. The Chief Engineer has had enough sitting around and waiting, and is anxious to be off and doing. Kirk can understand; after being on Delta Vega for only a day, he had been in the process of going crazy. And Scotty had been there for… _months_.

Kirk leans forward, increasing the feeling of secrecy and confidentiality around the little table. Everyone hushes expectantly, focused on his face. He _should_ be enjoying this, but he's still kind of bewildered, and can't muster up his typical cocky attitude. Instead of drawing out the moment, he just tells them what has happened, "Our first mission will be to transport the Vulcans to their new homeworld, and provide manpower and defense for them for an entire month, until we are relieved by another starship from the Fleet."

Much to his confusion, their response to the news is nothing like his. Scotty and Sulu cheer – it looks like, if they weren't in a public place, they would have even chest-bumped it – while Bones and Chekov grin like idiots, and Uhura laughs in enjoyment and surprise. He can't imagine why they would be so happy – again, _babysitting_? – but tries to shake off some of his funk so he doesn't ruin their mood. And he _is_ excited, just not as much as he would have been if daring and adventure had been part of their orders.

His efforts are fruitless, as a moment later Uhura says, "This is going to make Spock so happy! I'm sure he'll love the chance to see New Vulcan and help his people!"

To which Kirk cannot formulate a reply. He _still_ hasn't gotten any type of response from Spock, and now the Admiral is pressuring him to select a First, and a separate Science Officer. And he refuses to pick anyone but the half-Vulcan; no one else fits with the crew, no one else could possibly take Spock's place. His head falls forward, and with a _thump_ lands on the table before him. A small hand touches his shoulder, and he looks up into Uhura's worried face.

"He hasn't chosen yet, has he?" she asks him, and frowns after she studies his features. Looking up at the others, then back down at him, she promises, "I'll talk to him. This is getting ridiculous!"

Kirk grumbles something about bastard uncaring Vulcans under his breath. Such a short time left, now. He has decided that if Spock doesn't agree before they leave spacedock, he'll just depart without a First – they can use one of the Lieutenants to temporarily man the Science station – and then Starfleet will be forced to _make_ Spock join the _Enterprise's_ crew. Kirk just hopes they decide to court martial the pointy-eared one, or something equally reprehensible.

Uhura seems to pick up on his mood, her eyes narrowing slightly, "How long?"

He shifts his head away from her, so his forehead is resting against the smooth coolness of the tabletop. The others shuffle around him, their joy now tempered by his frustration. Bones especially cannot see why Kirk cares so much that Spock comes with them. And if he's honest with himself, Kirk isn't sure either. He just knows, in his gut, that Spock as his First Officer is the only right thing to do. Even discounting the prophecy of one alternate-reality time traveler, he finds himself attached to Spock and determined to have him aboard.

"Admiral Barnett said that the Vulcans would be on ship and prepared to leave in forty eight hours. We leave two days from now, at 0900 hours. I need his response by then, or we'll have to depart without him."

All of his people have been preparing to leave since they accepted their assignments, and can depart at a moment's notice. The forty eight hours is just a courtesy, as far as they are concerned; they can now inform family and say final goodbyes.

Uhura sucks on her bottom lip for a moment as she considers his words, and their implications. He is watching her from an angle, his forehead still cushioned by cool metal. All at once, she makes up her mind, and nods to herself.

She stands, brushing invisible lint off her skirt with delicate fingers, "I'm sorry boys, but I'll have to excuse myself from the rest of lunch. I must find Instructor Spock and get to the bottom of this. He _will_ give me an answer. And it better be the one that I want to hear." Her shoulders are set, her face determined; Kirk does not envy Spock his encounter with her in this mood.

Chekov gulps, and scrambles to get out of her way as she disappears from the bistro. "Now zhat, zhat is more terrifying zhen anything I'we seen in Russia!"

All four men chuckle weakly in response, grateful that they are not the focus of her ire. Kirk, now confident that his problem is in capable hands – delegating! Oh, it's great to be captain! – turns his attention instead to getting some food in his belly, and enjoying the company of his officers.

(*)

When they're done with lunch, he still hasn't been contacted by Uhura. Sulu has promised to send a blanket notification to the crew, so they are all aboard _Enterprise_ at the designated time. This leaves Kirk with a free evening, and he grumbles quietly to himself as he makes his way to the library. He is still caught up in Spock's refusal to come with them, and can't understand why it's so hard for the blasted Space Elf to make a simple decision. With nothing else to do with his time, he decides he'll research the whole Space Elf species and see if there's anything that might give him more of an insight into Spock's behavior.

Kirk pauses to chat with the librarian on duty, making small talk with the tiny old woman who has so many great-grandchildren that Kirk has lost count. With a parting comment about child number fifty two, he disappears down the aisles. He has seen so much of this building the past three years he feels more at home here than he does in the dorms. So quiet and comfortable, and always welcoming.

He makes his way to the terminals against the wall; the information he is searching for is old, and most of the physical books present are current titles. The older books are too precious, and have been scanned into the database so the actual copies can be ensconced in storage. The chairs are old and comfortable, and he sinks inside one as he settles into a cubicle in the back corner. It's his favorite spot, and the seat of the chair has been molded after many hours, perfectly fitting his form.

His fingers flying over the keys, he begins searching for any pertinent information. He's looking for details on the Vulcans as a race, how they differ from Humans both physiologically and psychologically. The first entries pulled up are from the initial contact made so many years ago, when the Vulcans introduced themselves to humanity. It is utterly fascinating, and Kirk finds himself forgetting what his original intent was, instead getting lost in the knowledge.

The hours pass like water through a sieve.

* * *

Even Nyota Uhura is unable to wrangle an answer from her significant other, and the days pass uneventfully as final preparations are made. Kirk is consulted periodically by the engineers stocking _Enterprise_ , to give suggestions on what he wants included in her cargo. The main bulk of space is given to the Vulcans, and the materials they will need to build a home on their new world, but there is some space left over for other necessities.

He spends some time considering what resources can and cannot be replicated, and builds up his list accordingly. There are two items that he includes that are atypical, but considering what he knows of the previous Vulcan homeworld, he can make assumptions about the conditions on their new one. And hot, dry air combined with high rocky cliffs makes the perfect climate for what he has in mind.

When asked if he agrees, Sulu's eyes light up with contemplation. "I think it's a great plan, Kir-Captain." He grins as he says it, comfortable in Kirk's presence, "Are you sure there's room for them on the ship, with everything else we have to bring with us?"

Kirk matches his friend's grin, "You must not have seen these new models. They fold up to about the size of a duffle bag, frame and all. It's really an impressive design."

He can already see the expedition flashing behind the Japanese's eyes, as Sulu agrees wholeheartedly, "Then as long as we're not kicking a Vulcan to the curb to make room, I'm definitely in! I've never gotten a chance to, being from San Francisco. I can't wait, but…do you have any idea where we're going to do it?"

Kirk rubs his hands together in glee, not phased a bit, "Oh, I was thinking Chekov could help us with that. Being the physics genius that he is, I'm sure he can calculate the best drop point for us."

Here Sulu's face falls a little, and he scratches his scalp in embarrassment, "I know you like Chekov and all, but…Isn't that kid a little bit crazy?"

Immediately, he waves off Sulu's concerns, "Nah! He's just trying so hard to impress that he comes off a little…focused. Are you questioning my judgment, as the only captain you're willing to serve under?" he wiggles his eyebrows at Sulu, who shrugs, then breaks out in another grin.

"I knew I shouldn't have told you that," he says, as he punches Kirk lightly in his arm, "You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?"

Kirk finds it best not to dignify that question with an answer – and therefore not incriminate himself – so instead changes the subject with his customary smile, "What other supplies do you think we'll need for this to work?"

* * *

Completely sober for this early morning meeting, he steps onto the bridge. _His_ bridge. The crisp golden tunic feels strange on him, but the admiring glances of _his_ crew show him that it compliments him well. He is the last to arrive, everyone waiting expectantly at their stations. Well, almost everyone – he spares a glance for the Science station, which is ominously empty. The frustration has given way to sadness, and his staunch refusal to have anyone but Spock still stands.

Striding forward purposefully, he seats himself in _his_ chair, observing his domain. At his signal, they report off; first Sulu, then Chekov, Scotty and Uhura. All systems are at optimal, and there can be no more delay; they must leave the spacedock.

Bones, standing between the lift door and the captain's chair, comments, "Same ship, different day."

It elicits a smile from his friend, but it doesn't last as his eyes are drawn yet again to the empty station. Everyone else on the bridge avoids looking at the spot Spock should occupy, hope warring with resignation on their faces. They had all expected to have a full compliment when they left the dock, and are as disappointed as Kirk that Spock is not one of them. But they can't wait forever.

Sighing, Kirk turns to his helmsman, "Sulu, prepare to engage forward thru– "

The soft whirr of the turbolift doors opening interrupts him. He freezes, his heart literally stuttering in his chest. He whips around to see who the last to arrive is, and he refuses to believe that it could be –

But it is. Spock strides in, tall and lean and somehow exuding humor even though there isn't an ounce of expression on his face. He requests permission to board, and Kirk answers in a daze. He is so _happy_ that his friend is finally where he's supposed to be, that he can barely form coherent responses to their customary banter. The entire bridge crew is grinning just as hugely as he is, and Chekov even lets go a quiet cheer from his seat at the navigation panel.

After a moment, there is a discreet harrumphing from Bones' direction, and Kirk is brought back to the present. There is still a task that must be accomplished before he can relish Spock's acceptance. He turns to address the helm.

"Maneuvering thrusters, Mr. Sulu – take us out!" he orders, pride and pure joy suffusing his features. _Now_ it is how he imagined it, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Sulu spins in his chair to manipulate the controls of his helm, his sure fingers speeding across the panel. Everything in readiness, he disengages the inertial dampener and eases them out of the docking station.

His own delight rings through his voice, as he responds; "Aye, Captain!"

(*)

At top speed, it will take the _Enterprise_ a little more than a day to reach New Vulcan. After the course is plotted in, and they reach maximum warp, there isn't much to do. At these speeds the ship handles the actual piloting, and all the Bridge Officers have to do is keep an eye out for possible…interference. But Sulu, Chekov and Uhura are constantly scanning space and communication frequencies for signs of any visitors, and Kirk is left watching stars rush past them in the view screen.

He's able to tolerate waiting patiently for about thirty minutes before he needs something to do, and desperately. His eyes alight on Spock's straight back; the Vulcan is focused on the Science station before him.

Grinning, Kirk saunters over.

"What took you so long to decide?" he asks, deciding to get the question out of his system. Spock starts at his voice, and turns to address his superior officer.

"I must admit, Captain, that I had not come to a decision before this morning. There were many factors involved that delayed my response, and I must apologize for not informing you previously." Spock responds, with an inclining of his head.

Kirk reaches forward, intent on squeezing Spock's arm – a typical gesture for him. He stops himself with an effort, remembering something he read a few days before. No physical contact unless required. Instead, he returns Spock's nod, "It's okay, Spock. What matters is that you made it. I can't imagine what it would have been like to start this journey without you here."

The impression of a frown flits across Spock's features, "I still fail to understand. Why is my presence on this vessel such a requirement? I am simply one of many who could have admirably filled my position."

The hand that wants to reach out is forcibly brought back in, and Kirk rubs the base of his neck, "Trust me, Spock. Someone else could stand where you are, but no one can take your place."

Spock considers for a moment, then his face softens minutely – as close to a smile as Kirk has yet seen him accomplish.

"Thank you, Captain. That admission further confirms that I have made the correct decision."

A blush runs across the tops of Kirk's cheeks, but thankfully before things can get even _more_ awkward, their conversation is interrupted.

"Captain?" chirps the intercom, as the disembodied voice of the engineer assigned to the transporter rooms fills the bridge.

Immediately, Kirk's attention is focused on the voice, "Yes, ensign?"

"Something has…happened…in transporter room three that requires your attention."

Kirk frowns, then glances at Spock. At the Vulcan's nod of affirmation, he responds to the voice, "The Commander and I will be there momentarily."

"Yes, sir."

As they stride to the elevator, Kirk throws over his shoulder; "Sulu, you have the conn."

Transporter room three is relatively close to the bridge, and it only takes a moment for them to reach it. Once inside, they enter a whirlwind of activity. There is a small, quick form darting between pieces of equipment, and a herd of mixed security guards and engineers chasing desperately behind. Just when it looks like one of the crewmembers is going to capture whatever – it – is, it slips out of their grasp and disappears behind another bit of machinery.

It is crossing the floor when it catches sight of the two of them, and Kirk identifies two floppy ears, a round belly, and small gyrating legs before the creature ducks behind him. A trembling form is pressed against the back of his legs, and a small head peeks out from behind the safety of his shins.

"Fascinating." Spock says, his attention riveted on the small creature behind Kirk. Standing still, Kirk swivels so he can view the being that has caused so much commotion.

"It appears to be a specimen of _Canis Familiaris_."

Not wanting to bowl over their captain, the security team and engineers have all stopped their mad running, and they mill about panting as they try to catch their breathes. The small creature looks up at Kirk, all lolling tongue and floppy black ears. Its tiny tail flops happily against the floor, and its spotted sides heave as it also tries to get some air back in its lungs.

"It's a beagle. But how?" he says in surprise, and he swears those peculiar ears look awfully familiar.

The engineer that originally requested his presence takes a gulp of air, and replies to his captain's question, "We don't know, sir. We got no notification that anyone was beaming aboard, the transporters did not even register receiving a signal. The only notice we got that he was here is that the little guy activated one of the proximity sensors set up on the perimeter."

One of the security personnel speaks up; "That's why we're here, Captain. We came to investigate the unknown presence."

Kirk nods, his attention on the idea that appeared in his mind. It seems unlikely, but then again, all of them have seen stranger things.

"I think I may know where he came from." He says, still looking down at the puppy. The beagle's tail thumps even louder, and his head tilts to the side as he stares up at Kirk. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk sees Spock give him a peculiar look at the statement. He ignores it, focused more on getting to the bottom of this situation.

Pressing lightly on his communicator, he activates it, "Kirk to bridge."

"Yes, Captain?" the answer is immediate, Sulu's voice crackling through the air.

"Have Ensign Chekov meet me in Engineering."

"He's on his way."

"Great, Kirk out."

The communicator goes silent, and Kirk is left with considering how he's going to get the dog _to_ Engineering. It doesn't seem like a good idea for him to move, as the beagle is currently sitting still behind the shelter of his legs.

"Mr. Spock, can you try to slowly reach down and pick him up?" he doesn't want any of the others to move, so they don't startle the puppy into action again. Thankfully, Spock should be close enough to be able to grab the little thing.

Spock opens his mouth, as if to protest, and then immediately closes it again. He then reaches out a reluctant hand, bending slowly to retrieve the dog. When his fingers are about two feet away, the growling begins. The puppy does not try to run out of his reach, but presses himself against the back of Kirk's calves as it tries to put more distance between itself and Spock. He continues forward, determined, until the little jaws snap shut just millimeters away from his fingertips.

"Hey!" Kirk admonishes, putting his hand on Spock's shoulder to stop his forward momentum. It is only there for a moment before he remembers about Vulcans, and removes the contact. "That's not very nice, you, you!" Before anyone can get hurt – namely, Spock – Kirk sinks down himself and gathers the puppy into his arms without a second thought.

And instead of vicious teeth gnashing against his skin, his face is instead attacked by a small pink tongue. Grinning at the display of affection, he rights himself again. "Well, Spock, it seems he doesn't like you."

Silence from the Vulcan for a moment, as he observes the puppy wiggling in Kirk's arms, "Perhaps the dislike is mutual. The creature even smells offensive."

"Awwww, Spock, that's puppy breath! It's one of the best smells ever!"

A raised eyebrow, which highlights Spock's disapproval perfectly, "I see."

"Are you telling me you've never seen a dog before?" Incredulous, he looks at his First Officer for confirmation.

"Affirmative. My stay on Earth has been limited to the Academy campus and the surrounding environs, and I have not been exposed to the other inhabitants of the Earth biosphere."

"Wow. I can't imagine spending so many years on another planet and not wanting to explore as much as I could…you really need to get out more."

"Indeed." The other eyebrow joins its fellow in hovering near Spock's hairline, "I had much to occupy myself with, and do not regret my stay in the Academy."

Kirk shrugs – it's not his place to try to tell Spock how to spend his time – and turns to the teams awaiting his orders, "I believe I can handle this – situation – from here on out. You're dismissed to continue the rest of your duties."

The security team salutes him, the engineers nodding before they disperse to their respective assignments.

"Come on Spock, let's get this little guy to Engineering and see if my hypothesis is correct." The eyebrows that had just returned to their normal position shoot upward again, and Kirk reacts, "And _yes_ I do know what the word 'hypothesis' means. Jeez."

The eyebrows lower quickly, causing a slight crease to appear between them, "I was not doubting your intelligence, Captain. I was merely indicating surprise that you could formulate an explanation for this seemingly inexplicable occurrence. I was simply impressed."

Kirk let's a grin spread across his face, mollified, "Wait until you find out what my explanation is…if this is inexplicable, you're gonna _love_ what's actually happened."

(*)

Scotty's jaw drops nearly to the floor, and he doesn't bother to retrieve it. He's staring at the dog in Kirk's arms, which is now whimpering and trying to hide under Kirk's shoulder. The puppy has managed to shove its muzzle into Kirk's armpit, but his prominent ears and distinctive markings are easily distinguished.

Scotty stands up slowly from where he was discussing points on transwarp theory with Chekov, wonder evident as he makes his way to their small group.

"A cannae believe it, captain! Where did ye find the wee mite?"

This is approximately the response Kirk was expecting, but he needs to know one more thing before his hypothesis is proven, "Before we explain, can you tell me if you've seen this dog before?"

Spock's eyes narrow in speculation, as he tries to determine where Kirk is headed. Kirk can pinpoint the exact moment that Spock figures it out, as the Vulcan's eyes light up from within.

"Aye, captain. This is the wee doggy that caused a heap o' trouble for me, by nae reappearing where he was meant to." Scotty runs the silky ears through his fingers, the wonder still shining from his face, "Archer's gonna be mighty happy he came back. But I cannae believe it! He's _exactly_ the same as he was when he went poof! A'd say he's nae a day older."

Chekov rounds the table and comes alongside the group, "What you are saying is zhat zhis dog has been gone for _sewen months_ and is still zhe same?"

"Aye, laddie. A trapped him transwarp with a faulty calculation. Am I wrong, or did he just poof inta the transporter room?"

Kirk nods, trying to cajole the puppy into removing its muzzle from a very uncomfortable position, "You're right. And I wanted Chekov here so you two can brainstorm, to try to find out _how_ that happened. And if possible, if it can be replicated."

Scotty looks aghast for a moment, and Kirk hastily corrects his misinterpretation; "Not that we'd try something like that again – I wouldn't want to risk something _not_ coming back! But all information is important, and I'm sure Starfleet will want to know everything you can find out."

Chekov and Scotty exchange glances, then they jump right into complex warp theory that leaves both Kirk and Spock behind.

Grinning at his First, Kirk says, "I guess that's our cue to leave them to it."

"A logical conclusion, Captain." Spock replies, without his usual eyebrow raise, and they make their way back to the bridge – a puppy in tow.

(*)

A squeal had greeted him when they returned to the bridge. Uhura and the others had gone crazy at the sight of the puppy, and the monotony of a dull shift had been drastically reduced as they all crowded around the new arrival. Kirk is still unable to find anywhere suitable to drop the dog off, and finds himself carrying it as he makes his way to Chekov's quarters.

Their shift is over, and Kirk has already made sure the puppy has food in its belly. Over the past several hours, the sleeping ball of fluff has wormed its way into Kirk's heart, and he's made an executive decision – his right as captain, after all – to take ownership of the animal. Shifting the puppy's position so it only takes up one arm, Kirk knocks on Chekov's door.

He's immediately admitted, and enters to find Chekov digging through the books coating his walls.

"Oh, hello Keptan! I am trying to find one of zhe books zhat I know has information zhat Mr. Scott will find useful…but it seems to hawe disappeared."

Kirk waves away the concern, "I'm sure you'll find it eventually. I was actually coming for something else, if you have time to help?"

At that, Chekov turns and gives his captain his full attention, happiness in every line of his body, "Sure!"

"Well, I brought these charts –" he indicates the rolls beneath his arm. Somehow, he's managed to hold both the puppy and the papers with the same hand. Chekov quickly removes them from his grasp, and spreads them on the table in the corner.

"Zhese are maps of zhe air currents on New Wulcan." He says, curiosity plain in his voice.

Kirk grins, "Yup. Hikaru and I have this idea…and we were wondering if you'd be able to help us find out where the best location would be."

At the mention of Sulu's name, Chekov's head jerks up to meet Kirk's eyes, "Lieutenant Sulu? I am sorry Keptan, but isn't he crazy?"

Kirk is able to look into Chekov's eyes for precisely five seconds before he begins laughing so hard he has to put down the squirming dog.

"He…said…the same…about…you!" he manages to gasp, as he's rolling-rolling-rolling on the floor, giggles overflowing. The young man looks offended for a moment, and then his expression slowly changes to one of consternation. As the hilarity sinks in, he also begins giggling uncontrollably, and ends up gasping on the floor next to Kirk.

The captain lets out one more burst of giggles before he's able to gain control of himself, Chekov not far behind. They lay there, letting their sides heal for a minute or so, before Chekov turns to his friend.

"So, what is it you two are planning?"

Kirk's grin returns, and he rolls over to face his friend.

"So, we thought that it would be a perfect opportunity for…" and he tells Chekov what they want to do.

* * *

 **A/N:** You didn't think it was gonna happen, did ya? Yes, they did spend…a night…in the _Enterprise_. Before they left again. For an extended time away. But they were THERE and that's what counts!

The puppy is really the only difference anyone will be able to tell that I'm carrying over from the book. At the end of the novelization, the beagle does really appear on the _Enterprise_ as they're leaving the Spacedock for the first time. I think the movie is the "official" version, so it's not canon. But I liked it. And now it's MINE! XD

Also, for some unknown reason every time I read this chapter the line "Bones quips, before he trots off to whatever dark evil place he appeared from." I giggle. Uncontrollably. Like a little school girl. And I'm the one that wrote it x_O

It pops out a mental image of Bones all red with little horns and a tail, hunched over with a hypo in his hand and snickering as he trots off.

But that's probably just me.


	6. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : I know the first five chapters are sadly devoid of any Spock of quantity. But he's going to show up more and more as time goes by, I promise! I haven't lost sight of that part of the story, just setup was important first! _Believe me_ I have a TON of fluffy things planned for *THOSE TWO* that I can't wait to show you guys!

**A/N** : I know the first five chapters are sadly devoid of any Spock of quantity. But he's going to show up more and more as time goes by, I promise! I haven't lost sight of that part of the story, just setup was important first! _Believe me_ I have a TON of fluffy things planned for *THOSE TWO* that I can't wait to show you guys!

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Six

* * *

**

When they arrive at New Vulcan, there is not even a moment's peace. Everyone's help is needed, and work crews are delegated for all responsibilities. Three skeleton crews are left on rotation onboard the _Enterprise_ , to monitor the surrounding space and keep in contact with Starfleet.

The first to leave the ship are several of the Vulcans, who take a shuttle down to the surface to find a safe location for disembarking. It does not take them long to pick the perfect place, and then the ship is moved so that it is orbiting the planet directly above the chosen settlement. While they were searching, the rest of the crew was responsible for getting all the equipment and materials – previously stowed safely away on the _Enterprise_ – ready to be transported to the surface. There is literally no free space on the ship, every available nook and cranny crammed full of either Vulcan or material. Kirk is amazed at how much his ship has actually contained, and spends his time running from group to group, helping as much as he can.

It is determined that the initial items to be unloaded are those that are going to help them survive on the planet. That means food, shelter, and liquid are top priority. They have arrived around mid-morning, and the Vulcans warn them that they only have a few more hours before the planet's surface will be unbearable without proper cover. The scramble gets even more furious, as the first shuttles leave the docking area full of supplies and personnel.

They are all highly trained, professional members of an elite group of individuals. Once they have their tasks, they are done efficiently, and the camp explodes into being beneath them. Rows of thick protective tents appear as if raised from the sand itself, dust colored habitations that are manufactured to save them from the punishing heat. They are organized into tight groups; the Vulcans, engineers, and science personnel ensconced in the middle, with the tactical members at the perimeter. Every section is arranged into smaller groups with their own fire pit in the middle, their own set of supplies and water. It is too arduous to transport so many back and forth every day, so those that are delegated to helping the Vulcans on the planet will be staying there the entire month, and all their necessities must be met.

The campsite is done just in time, and the crew on the ground retreat to the safety of their tents for the duration of the hottest hours. Up on the _Enterprise_ , Kirk is occupied with final preparations for their departure. The members of the command team will be periodically transported back up to the ship to check up on things, but overall the skeleton crews will be left to their own devices. Because of this, Kirk has chosen the most senior members to leave behind, the ones he can trust the most to handle themselves admirably. He checks in with them, making sure they also have everything they need. They are anxious to get everything situated for the time being, but excited to begin their duties.

The building supplies and equipment will be transported down starting early in the morning, as everyone needs time to get situated on the ground before the work can really begin. Once it begins to cool down on the planet, the rest of the ground crew – and the Vulcans themselves – will begin using the shuttles and transporters to reach the surface. Everyone takes the time to make sure that everything is ready for the day to start tomorrow, and makes sure to grab something to eat before the hustle begins again.

Kirk takes his few moments of free time to collect the puppy from his quarters. He can't be left on the _Enterprise_ by himself, and Kirk kind of liked waking up to the small warm form curled against him. Puppy breath smelled just as wonderful in the morning as it did at night.

Before he had retired, he'd gotten Uhura's help rigging a harness for the puppy. It looks ridiculous, but the puppy is happily trotting at his side. The Vulcans, as they mill about, cast them curious glances as they pass by. Whenever a crew member catches sight of the little ball of plumpness, they burst into a smile. Seeing the reactions of his crew, Kirk is even more determined to make the puppy shine. The _Enterprise_ could use a mascot, especially if it can keep morale high. He grins down at the diminutive round form, plans taking shape in his mind.

There is barely time to feed himself and his pet before he's getting summoned to one of the transporter rooms. They have been informed by the teams currently on the ground that the temperature is now tolerable to humans. It is their turn to begin beaming down.

A little worried about how the puppy is going to react to the transport, Kirk scoops him into his arms. While its attention is focused on coating his chin with puppy-kisses, he steps onto the platform and orders the engineer on duty to energize.

He feels the familiar tingle of transport, and then they are surrounded by a blast of heat. The puppy, who didn't even twitch at the transport, whimpers in surprise. Kirk himself lets out a gasp as the dry air seems to melt his lungs. _Ouch_. Somehow, he didn't expect it to be _this_ hot.

Quickly, he is ushered into the relative relief of one of the tents. Graded to keep out the worst of the heat, but it still feels like an oven inside. He finds, suddenly, that he is wearing too much clothing – or not enough, as he remembers flashes of desert dwellers from Earth – as a coating of sweat spontaneously drenches him from head to toe. It is entirely too hot to be holding another creator of heat, and he sets the protesting puppy down on the ground. The beagle does nothing but flatten himself to the earth, trying desperately to get any relief he can from the heat.

A pang of regret fills Kirk for a moment – this isn't really fair to the dog, who didn't ask to come to the planet – but he takes the edge off it with the knowledge that the puppy will stay inside the tent during the worst of the times. And he didn't have the choice of leaving the beagle up above. He pets the soft head in apology.

"It's okay little guy, we'll get used to it." He hopes.

But then one of the engineers in charge of the camp is trying to get his attention, and he's caught up in duty once more.

(*)

The camp comes to life as the day wanes. The shuttles come and unload, and a constant stream of personnel is beamed to the surface, filling the tents and byways with bodies. Everyone settles into their assigned tents, unloading their few personal items and getting to know their temporary neighbors. The Vulcans, who were so tense and shut off on the _Enterprise_ are – well, still tense and noncommittal – but there is a minute change in their behavior, as the familiar heat and climate seem to relax them. Kirk hopes this signals their acceptance of the new planet, and that New Vulcan can be – if never a replacement, at least an adequate substitute for their old home.

As the world revolves, and the sunlight lessens, the surface begins to cool off. It is a noticeable improvement, but not anywhere close to comfortable. Hopefully, they will become accustomed soon. It's one of the reasons the ship and ground crews are not rotating out during their month stay; their acclimatization won't be wasted by a shift out of the heat reversing the effects. Kirk finds himself longing for his turn to check on the ones up above, ironically entertained by the pathetic situation; he hasn't even been on the planet for a day.

Not being an artificial environment, the end of the work day is signaled when the sun disappears. Fires spring up in the pits suffusing the camp, cheerful spots of light that beckon everyone to gather. Little groups of people are surrounding each firepit, talking quietly amongst themselves; some singing, all of them eating heartily. The replicators may have created the foodstuffs, but actual flame is cooking it. Kirk passes from group to group, enjoying the company of his crew, and taking the opportunity to get to know them all better. Cheerfulness, laughter, and a bawdy song or two, and the summer camp feel is complete. He is not the only one mingling; his bridge crew is also going through their own sections, cementing the bonds between officers and crew.

Eventually, long after true night has fallen, they meet up around the fire designated for their group of tents. They are all exhausted from their day, and well aware that tomorrow will be even more punishing. There is a ship full to bursting with supplies and equipment that must be transferred safely to the surface – and then their _real_ work will begin. None of them are quite ready to retire for the evening, instead spending the remainder of their time talking quietly amongst themselves. Uhura and Chekov are playing with the puppy, her eyes constantly rising to scan the darkness outside the range of the fire, searching for the presence of a figure.

One of their number has not made his way back to camp, again the last of them to arrive. Kirk is not worried for Spock's wellbeing; they have a full complement of security guarding the perimeter at all times, as well as the _Enterprise_ watching them from above. He assumes Spock is occupied with the other Vulcans – they have much to discuss, especially considering Spock's decision to come with the _Enterprise_.

When Spock finally arrives, it is without fanfare. Slipping in from the darkness with an object he did not have when he left – a chessboard? – he deposits his treasure in his tent, before making his way over to Uhura. He settles himself next to her in silence; Nyota reaches out and brushes his arm with her fingertips.

The team is now complete, and Kirk relaxes inside. He is able to let go of the tensions of the day, and he can feel the tightness in his neck muscles finally release.

Included in their companionship, but not taking part in their quiet conversations, he basks in belonging.

(*)

It has been a long day, and it's only halfway through. They started before the sun crested the hills, to maximize the work they could do before the heat became unbearable. The work started with the first shuttle landing, and has continued unabated for hours. Unloading, lifting, moving, the boxes are never ending. There are no official breaks; the crew members simply pause when they can no longer move, and continue when their limbs are working again. The quicker everything is unloaded, the more time they will have to actually build structures for the Vulcans' home. Everyone is feeling the pressure, and no one wants to stop unless they have to.

Least of all their captain. He feels like he is a million places at once, helping wherever he can. Kirk is the only one among them that does not take a break, so focused is he on the task at hand. Not only are there shuttles constantly landing, but there are materials being beamed down at a steady pace. He is there, as well, coordinating the teams that are shuffling equipment to the side. Move move move, make room for the next shipment – it's continuously arriving.

For the most part, the shifting of materials is all done by brute force and man power. They have machines to help move the materials, but they had to be brought to the surface in pieces. The parts are scattered throughout the work area, and someone will have to begin organizing once this is all over with.

The only machine that has been assembled is the one he is currently working with. They are using it to get those objects that are too large for humans to move out of the unloading area. A huge crane, it teeters on a base that looks far too small to support it, and yet it never shifts its position. Right now it is lifting giant metal bars, and depositing them on the pile on the western edge of the work area.

Kirk is exhausted, desperately waiting for the heat to drive them indoors for a rest. He's been going for so long he is past the point of thinking. It is now just a set of motions: directing the crane's load forward, back, left and right. His focus has narrowed to the immediate task at hand, and he has no energy for anything beyond the process itself. All morning he had been constantly scanning around him to see if there was a group that needed his help more than his current project; now he no longer cares. Just a little while longer…. His stomach has been growling for quite a while now, and there is so much sweat beaded on his bare back and chest it looks like he just stepped out of a shower. Like many of the people around him, any extra clothing has long since been removed, and he no longer remembers exactly what happened to his command tunic. And he no longer cares; it will turn up eventually.

A scream of terror and a shout of command are the only things that break through the fog enshrouding his fatigued mind. Simultaneous, they shatter the silence that had enveloped the exhausted work crews. As one, every person and machine present grinds to a sudden and unexpected halt.

Kirk freezes along with everyone else, shaking his head to try and wake up. Something has happened, and he needs to gain control of the situation, and quickly –

Before he can even register what occurred, there are fingers like iron bars gripping his arms, applying pressure just shy of deadly intent. The hands are like hot brands, burning even stronger than the sun beating down on Kirk's shoulders. Spock is there, glaring daggers like ice at him – and Kirk realizes that it was the Vulcan who had roared with authority just a moment before.

"Explain your actions. Immediately." Spock demands, his eyes slightly narrowed as he glares at Kirk. Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, Kirk tries to pull himself out of the Vulcan's grip, but his struggles are useless against his superior strength.

"Let me go, Spock! I don't even know what you're talking about, all I'm doing is trying to help!" Kirk responds, trying to shake off the fog of exhaustion that's cloying to everything he does. He picks at stiff fingers, confusion adding to the sense of unreality cast over the morning.

Instead of letting him go, Spock lifts him up bodily – as if he were a child unable to move himself – and spins him around, depositing him again in the soft sand. The iron grip on his shoulders becomes, if anything, more pronounced as his legs buckle beneath him.

Kirk can see his crew milling around, watching the tableau occurring in front of their eyes. Their work is forgotten, boxes deposited in random locations as they pause to observe. What has caught all of their attention – and now Kirk's – is frightening enough to stutter the rhythm of his heart.

In the center of the work site, not twenty feet away, is a family of civilians. A mother Vulcan clutches her two children to her, in a display that no Vulcan would normally allow. Directly behind them – on an intersect course that nearly occurred – is the loaded crane hook. It swings on the end of its cable, stopped by Spock's swift actions just before collision occurred. There was no way the crane operator would have seen the family – the load itself is in the way. It was _Kirk's_ responsibility to see the danger, and make the necessary actions.

And he had not. Blinded, whether by exhaustion or indifference, he had been about to destroy several lives. It is only that vice-like grip on his shoulders that keeps him upright. If he had been under his own power, he would be sunk to his knees from the shock. As it is, he is left trembling in Spock's hands, staring at the evidence of what his thoughtlessness nearly wrought.

"I had hoped that Starfleet knew what it was intending, sending you and your crew here." Spock is saying, the words – though void of any anger – full of something that is not quite emotion, "I had let myself believe that you had changed from the impetuous creature you were when first we met. Apparently, I have been incorrect. Starfleet must hate us, those of us that are all that remain of the Vulcan race, to send such negligent assistance."

Kirk is unable to respond, cannot refute the statements. All that flashes through his mind are images of the three innocents crushed, destroyed, under the weight of so many tons of steel. _Children_ , each one so precious and unique and only them!

"If this is the quality of the assistance they offer, then it is not needed. If their intention was to further the extinction of my entire species, then it is clearly exposed. We do not require this caliber of aid, and if your intention is to continue in this manner then we do not require your presence either."

As if the touch of his skin is suddenly more than the Vulcan can bear, Kirk is abruptly released from Spock's grip. He staggers, managing to stay on his feet for only a moment, and then sinks to his knees.

"I didn't mean – I never wanted – I didn't see…." He murmurs to himself, dazed.

But the Vulcan's hearing picks up his words with ease.

"That is where the issue lies, yes. Your species, apparently, never does anything intentionally."

He hangs his head, overcome with images of all the unintended actions of an entire species of short-sighted beings. A shiver of something – possibly disgust – rolls across Spock's shoulders, and then he is gone.

Kirk is unable to move from where he squats in the dirt, folded in on himself in shame. He can hear his crew shuffling around him, but their murmured questions barely register through the screaming self-incriminating hatred skittering around inside his skull.

After a few deep breathes, he is able to gain a modicum of control over his voice again, and attempts to diffuse the situation, "All right everyone. That's enough work for right now."

Gasping in a deep, steadying breath, he taps on his communicator to open a channel. Never before has he been so grateful that the badges have been upgraded, and he's able to talk to his crew with a simple touch; "Kirk to ground crew, the sun is getting close to its zenith. Finish your immediate task, and go get some food at camp. Kirk out."

When the channel crackles closed, he rises from the sand. Without looking up he turns from his audience, and flees for the safety of his tent.

(*)

He wakes up to oppressive, ever-present heat, and heaviness in his heart. The soft shape curled in the curve of his neck unwraps itself, plaintively covering his face with kisses. But he is not in the mood for love, and pushes the puppy gently away.

"Shhhh, you, I'll be okay." He consoles, even though he isn't quite sure of the truth behind the words. He can be honest to himself, and recognizes the fact that this isn't the first time his actions have caused people pain. It seems that, even here in Starfleet, he is always going to do things wrong. But he does surprise himself in how deeply Spock's low opinion of him matters. Again and again he finds himself thinking of the words that were said, and desperately searching for a way to make things right between the two of them once more.

He grinds his palms into his eyes, wishing he could fall back into unconsciousness and forget. Kirk had tried, last night, to confront the Vulcan and try to apologize – but Spock had ignored his presence completely. Without speaking a word, the half-Vulcan had gotten up from his seat near the fire, turned around, and disappeared into the darkness. Uhura had shaken her head at Kirk, an accusing expression on her face, before following her boyfriend.

This time, there would be no talking to Bones to smooth out the jumbled thoughts in his mind. The camp is far too public, with simple canvas walls the only thing shutting out the world. Rolling onto his belly, he stares unseeing at the little puppy flopped on the pillow before him.

"What would you do, dog?" he asks the little beagle, "He won't accept an apology – hell, he won't even speak to me." The floppy eared head tilts comically to the side, and he absent-mindedly hands over the requisite treat, still focused on the path of his thoughts.

"How do I show him that I _do_ care what happens with his people? That it was just a horrible, horrible mistake that I'm not gonna let happen again? That I value his friendship, and his opinions and the insights he has?" he groans aloud, unable to _think_ with all the tension singing through his veins. He never does well with pent up frustration, and he knows he needs an outlet before he bursts and does something incredibly stupid.

Jumping out of the cot, he digs out his pants and pulls them on. He wishes he didn't have to – it is too hot for any extra bit of clothing – but he can't just wander around the camp in nothing but his underwear.

He checks and makes sure the puppy has enough food and water to last the morning, picks up the only two bags in his tent, and steps out into the harsh sun. Another scorching morning. There wasn't going to be anything _but_ scorching mornings, and he's just going to have to get used to it.

Striding across their small section of camp, he lets himself into Sulu's tent. Hikaru is seated cross-legged on his cot, quietly reading a book while he eats his breakfast. He blinks at the sudden sunlight that filters in with Kirk, and frowns up at his friend.

"Hey, Kirk." They are not technically on duty, and the casual reference comes easy to Sulu, "What's up?"

Kirk puts his biggest grin in place, and shrugs the duffels in his hands, "I needed to get out and blow off some steam. Wanna go try out that spot Chekov found?"

The Japanese looks like he's about to protest, but then he takes a better look at his friend's face. Reconsiders. "Sure, man, just give me fifteen minutes to get ready and we'll head out."

He nods his blonde head, and slips out the door again. That's what he likes about Sulu – they understand each other. No awkward questions or explanations required. Unlike Chekov, who is still asleep and fights to stay that way far longer than Kirk would have expected. But eventually he gets the younger man _out_ of the tent and into the harsh sunlight. Chekov doesn't glare at him for the rude awakening, but he does shoot pathetic, wounded-puppy eyes at Kirk as they wait for Sulu to emerge.

"I do not understand why zhis is necessary. We hawe many hours left, we could hawe left at a reasonable time –" Chekov mumbles under his breath, making Kirk sigh.

"I just needed to go now, okay? And besides, the earlier we go the more time we'll be able to play before the sun forces us back. And who knows when we'll get a chance to slip away again?" Kirk cajoles. Tries to ignore the thought that they can't really afford to slip away _now_ , but he needs to get out out out and he can't stand the thought of being in camp a moment longer.

"Zhat is true." Chekov responds, "But –"

And Kirk is spared further commentary by Sulu, who exits his tent with the rest of their equipment in tow.

"You two ready?" he asks, making Kirk grin again. This was going to be fun, no matter what mood he was in right now.

Instead of responding directly to Hikaru, Kirk opens a channel to the ship hovering above them.

"Yes, Captain?"

"I need three men, and our equipment, transported to these coordinates." He rattles them off with ease, even though he hasn't looked at the charts themselves in several days.

"Aye, sir. On your mark."

The other two nod their readiness, grins spreading across their faces as well.

"Energize."

They rematerialize on the top of a soaring pinnacle of rock. The sheer cliffs on every side drop down to the desert below, and they are so high there are wisps of clouds _beneath_ them. Kirk takes a deep breath of the untainted air, his grin already becoming more natural as his tension eases away in anticipation.

"Can you feel zhat? Zhe heat up here is even more noticeable zhen down where we were. It should be perfect." Chekov says as he turns slowly in a circle, observing all angles of descent. "I think it would be best to go from zhis angle."

He walks to the edge, pointing down with a grin.

"You're the expert." Kirk replies, as he and Sulu bend down to unpack their equipment. Chekov trots back to help, and soon two sleek looking hang gliders are taking shape on the rocks.

Streamlined, brightly colored metal and fabric stand out against the rust-colored rocks. The American and the Japanese are in specially designed jump suits, helmets protecting their heads. Kirk would prefer foregoing the helmet – wind through his hair was definitely ideal – but he would only go so far to get his highs. That made the helmet an unfortunate necessity.

All three do one last check of the gliders, making sure everything is assembled properly. Little screws need to be fastened in tightly, canvas needs to be spread taut and secured. When everything is found satisfactory, Chekov and Sulu help strap Kirk in, and then Chekov assists Sulu.

Suspended beneath his hang glider, Kirk walks it to the edge Chekov had indicated earlier. His heart is pumping furiously, adrenaline flowing through his veins even before he has begun. He is grinning from ear to ear, the frustration and tension from earlier completely forgotten. This is what he needed, the taste of freedom and danger to clear the cloying feelings from his mind.

Chekov trotting to the edge of the cliff to observe is the only signal that Kirk needs. With a wild cry, he runs forward the last few feet, and drops. In the first few moments of freefall he hooks his feet in their harness, and then the heat of the thermal catches the wide wings of the hang glider.

Then he is floating, suspended above the treacherous landscape so far below. Sulu appears alongside him, and the joy that suffuses the pilot's face matches what Kirk can feel on his own.

Time ceases to exist, and all that is real is the sky around him and the glider carrying him along.

* * *

 **A/N:** Well! Some of you guessed right, it's hang gliding! I kinda feel bad for Chekov though: he just gets to watch XD. Maybe if I have them doing some other fun things, he'll get to participate. You never know ;)

As far as the contest goes...nobody's guessed yet :( Is it too hard? Do I need to give a hint? I realize it's a rather obscure reference, and I mean, it is just a line from any book anywhere, so it could be unbelievably hard XD. Writing that, I do realize this is unbelievably difficult, and not really fair. How about this...It's from a fantasy novel?


	7. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : I just hit the halfway mark for writing this story….and I have boggled myself. The longest thing I've ever written – which was HUGE for me, and I never thought I'd go any further – was around 30k words. it's only a little baby 27 pages long… and this GIANT THING that I have undertaken is already 80k words, with around 140 pages. At halfway. I HAVE ASTOUNDED MYSELF. Needless to say, Herman is a really _really_ persuasive Plotbunny. Of doom, death, and destruction.

**A/N** : I just hit the halfway mark for writing this story….and I have boggled myself. The longest thing I've ever written – which was HUGE for me, and I never thought I'd go any further – was around 30k words. it's only a little baby 27 pages long… and this GIANT THING that I have undertaken is already 80k words, with around 140 pages. At halfway. I HAVE ASTOUNDED MYSELF. Needless to say, Herman is a really _really_ persuasive Plotbunny. Of doom, death, and destruction.

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Seven

* * *

**

It is several days before he notices her presence. He had felt – someone – watching him, a shape at the corner of his eye as he made his way through the worksite, helping wherever he can. But she is a quiet shadow, and Kirk doesn't want to draw attention to her as long as she doesn't do anything that requires it.

The first time he gets a clear look at her, it catches him completely off guard. Gangly stick-limbs too thin for the body, like a foal with a shaggy mane of dark dark hair falling into dark dark eyes. Eyes that are too large in her pale face, as they bore into his. Startled, he involuntarily backs away a step, and she dashes off like the foal she resembles.

It takes a moment to calm his heart as her face is frozen in his mind. He can't help but recognize her, and guilt overcomes him. She is one of the two children he almost murdered their first day on the planet. He looks around, searching for her, but she has disappeared as completely as if she never existed.

But he still feels her eyes upon him, even though he never catches sight of her again. And even though he is sure she must have some purpose in tailing him, nothing ever happens and she never presents herself to him.

The next day, the first of his crew comment on his little tracker. He is talking to one of his engineers about a machine that is giving them problems, and brainstorming on possible solutions.

The eyes of the engineer fix on a point over his shoulder, where he's been feeling his tail's presence for the last several minutes. Kirk turns, trying to catch sight of her again, but the young Vulcan has already disappeared.

When he turns back to the engineer, she is smiling mischievously at him, "It seems someone has an admirer. Apparently, your appeal knows no bounds, even cross-species."

He grins, his ego puffing up at the compliment, but unable to deny the truth; "I really don't think she's following me for that reason."

Her eyes turn knowing, her smile unabated, "If you want to think that, I can't change your mind. But just you wait, you'll see! I know that look when I see it."

Kirk's smile turns contemplative, as he glances back again at the place she was moments before. At a flash of inspiration, his follower is forgotten. He scrambles up the side of the machine like a monkey, explaining his idea to the engineer as he works on fixing their problem.

Slowly, ever so slowly, over the next few days she makes her presence evident. The crewmembers that Kirk interacts with smile indulgently, fond of his little dark-haired shadow. Instead of trying to catch sight of her, he lets her come to him.

And it seems that right when he's gotten used to feeling invisible eyes upon him, she steps out into the open. Following a dozen feet behind, she is no longer a shadow but an obvious presence as he goes about his duties with the work crews.

He has noticeably relaxed, as nothing malicious seems to be in her intent. She is simply observing his movements, her large eyes unblinking as she soaks up the sight of him. It makes him uncomfortable – she looks to be only about twelve or thirteen – but as long as she means no harm, he can indulge his own curiosity. And so he watches her as well.

Five days after this all began; he is eating lunch by himself back at their fire pit. Kirk glances up from his meal – a nondescript, congealed mass made from leftover bits as they wait for resupply from the ship – and meets her gaze across the fire.

She doesn't squirm, or try to escape his regard, as a Human child would. She simply blinks once, slowly, and continues to watch him. The beagle, lying at his feet, finally registers that they are not alone in their section of camp. Yipping, he rises to his feet – but does not advance on the girl.

Instead of pulling away, she leans towards the puppy, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. Kirk grins at her reaction, and ushers her forward.

"If you want to pet him, he doesn't bite."

She hesitates for a moment, staring into his eyes again. Then she seems to make up her mind, and crosses around to his side of the fire. Seats herself beside him, a quiet shuffling of robes. Again unexpectedly, she doesn't reach down to pet the dog, instead just sitting and observing. The puppy is not nearly as shy as she, and begins furiously snuffling her shoes and the hem of her robes.

Kirk sits back, also observing. He doesn't want to push her too hard, and he's sensed this Vulcan is abnormally quiet, even by their standards. He watches as she leans forward, following every movement of the little form beneath her. Curiosity is evident, if he looks closely for the signs. He is one that knows that Vulcans actually _do_ feel, and he is watching for the tell-tale evidence to see how to continue with her.

The puppy manages to get underneath the skirts of her robes, and has poked its head out to grin up at her with a lolling tongue. She blinks down at the little head, her hand reaching forward tentatively before she pulls it back, "What species is this lifeform?"

A solemn voice, far too reserved to belong to someone so young – at least to Kirk's ears. "He's _canis familiaris_ , and his breed is Beagle. They're a popular dog back on Earth. You introduce yourself to dogs like this –" and he reaches forward himself, letting the puppy sniff and lick his fingers, "so they know that you're a friend."

She follows his example, wonder evident in her eyes as the pink tongue explores her fingertips. "He feels like nothing else. He is full of…happiness." Her dark dark eyes turn to look at Kirk, "And he is full of love for you."

Kirk grins at her, encouragingly, "Yup. Dogs are known as 'man's best friend' because they unconditionally love their masters."

Her attention is riveted on the puppy again, as he bumps his head under her hand for rubbing, "Fascinating."

"Here," Kirk says, demonstrating a hand motion, "Go like this, and tell him to sit."

She mimics the motion perfectly, and the puppy responds immediately by planting his round little bottom on the ground. His tail begins wagging furiously. This time, she strokes his head without prompting.

"What is he called?" she asks Kirk, not taking her eyes off the warm form before her.

"That's my problem. I haven't decided what I'm going to name him yet. I've only had him for a little while." At his words, her eyes dart up to his, then back down.

"Perhaps I could assist you in determining what he should be called." She offers, refusing to look at him as she speaks.

Inside, he cheers at his success. It looks like the young Vulcan could use a friend, and it certainly provides a perfect excuse for him to be one, "I'd like that very much. But of course, you'd have to get to know him better, so you could give me your best opinions." He pauses, debating, then continues, "What's your name?"

Now she shifts uncomfortably – it's minute, but it's there – and refuses to look at him, "I am called Surel."

"Why aren't you angry at me, Surel?" he asks quietly, not wanting to scare her away, but needing to know. The Vulcan stares up at him, signs of confusion evident on her face.

"Why would I be angry at you? If you are referring to the circumstances surrounding the first time I saw you, those were not intentional and you did not see what was going to happen. And we are Vulcan…anger does not rule us, nor do we acknowledge its existence in ourselves." she responds, "The only one that appears…unsettled…at previous events is that one."

There is no need to say his name. Spock still has not responded to his attempts to apologize, and make things better. The half-Vulcan seems to be turning into a constant source of frustration and confusion where Kirk is concerned.

"I'm glad. If you were angry, I wouldn't have gotten the chance to meet you."

Her huge eyes are staring at him again, and then she nods once, and returns her attention to the dog, "Does he have any other abilities that are not immediately obvious?"

And, gladly, he shows her the tricks he's been teaching his puppy.

(*)

After his breakthrough with Surel that morning, his day should have gone blindingly well. Unfortunately, it seems as if the Vulcan High Council is intentionally trying to make his afternoon devolve into nothing but an angry tension headache.

They are going over the foundations of the city together, trying to determine what types of adjustments are to be made before the real building can begin. There is nothing but the hints of buildings in the dust, and already the Council is finding fault with Starfleet's work.

"The corners of each building must line up perfectly to the cardinal direction points on the planet's surface. This structure is facing slightly northeast."

"Perfection must be attained in their form. This structure has a foundation that is not geometrically square. The north-south set of walls is exactly 2.5 millimeters too short."

"This surface is not even. There is an angle of precisely .17 degrees that must be corrected before building can move forward."

And it continues. Every foundation has something wrong with it that must be immediately addressed before anything else can be done. Kirk can understand that this is their home, and they want it to be perfect and up to their standards. If his people were not trying he would understand the criticism. But they are doing their best, measuring each step out multiple times before finalizing anything. So much attention to detail. His people want everything perfect for the Vulcans, too. They _care_ about rebuilding their ally's home.

And it seems, at least to Kirk, that the High Council is intentionally finding fault with details that at any other time would be perfectly acceptable. Admittedly, he had not been to Vulcan before its destruction, and cannot compare New Vulcan to old; yet Spock has not complained about the work they have been doing. In fact, the only time the half-Vulcan has seemed happy is when he is working alongside the rest of the crew in making a home for his people. Not once has he complained about a line not being perfectly straight, or anything else that the High Council keeps bringing up.

Come to think of it, the Starfleet crew has been working side by side with their Vulcan counterparts. And the Vulcans on the work teams have _also_ not found any fault in the Humans' – and sprinkling of other species' – building abilities. His anger sparks, as his suspicion is confirmed.

"I don't know why you insist on making my people feel like they have failed miserably." he interrupts the Council Chairman in the middle of another long-winded rebuke of Starfleet's abilities.

The Chairman stops speaking, giving Kirk his best how-dare-you look, while refusing to show any emotion at all, "I beg your pardon. Captain. But if we have fallen short in our attempt to detail what is acceptable and what is not, then we must commence from the beginning again."

Somehow, without any undertones at all, the Council members have been able to convey with perfect ease and clarity just how idiotic they believe Kirk to be. And he's _sick_ of being made to feel like he's stupid.

"Well, then you might also want to have a long talk with your own people. In case you have forgotten, Vulcans have been working side by side and hand in hand with my people the entire time we have been building. And the Vulcans that have been creating the structures believe they are made correctly, within specifications, and building can continue as it stands. And also, in case it slipped your memory –" he comments, even though he knows they have eidetic recall and can't forget a single thing, "you're accompanying me today as a simple formality, and even if you found something to disapprove of that was actually legitimate, we have leave to continue without your approval. All we needed your input on was the initial planning stage, which was finished weeks ago. All approvals now are headed by the construction teams themselves – teams you appointed to their positions."

The Science Minister, who has been a particular thorn in Kirk's side, gets about as visibly ticked off as Kirk has ever seen a pure-blooded Vulcan become. Good. It's about time they got as frustrated as Kirk is with this whole insulting process.

"So unless you gentlemen," and here he pauses, making quite sure they understand he means exactly the opposite, "have anything constructive to add that is not intended as an insult to my people and their abilities, I would…appreciate...if you would keep your thoughts to yourselves."

Turning swiftly on his heel, he continues the tour. He dictates what each building's purpose is, and indicates which plan it was built off of. The High Council follows after him, sullen, but no longer lashing out with bitter words.

(*)

Almost as soon as he is free of the Council, he regrets his actions. They have every right to want everything to be perfect, and he should not have taken their commentary as personal. And yet…they make it so hard to feel sympathetic for them, especially when they are so damn condescending.

Sighing, he releases some of his bone deep weariness as he makes his way back into the heart of the camp. The tent city is starting to feel like home, and one fourth of the way through their stay, it doesn't surprise him. He is beginning to realize that the permanent homes for these last, lost Vulcans will not be completed by the time they leave. This sea of tents will outlive them, and the _Enterprise_ will be leaving them behind to continue providing their shelter. Kirk enjoys toying with the idea of some part of them staying here, if only as an added way to help the Vulcan people. The resentment he first felt when hearing of their assignment is gone completely, slowly being replaced by sorrow at their predicament.

Which makes his sense of regret even worse. It is going to take months for this place to even start feeling like a permanent home, and blowing up at the High Council only makes it worse. Just another thing he'd have to make up for, in time. He was trying now.

He stops by his own tent to pick up the puppy. Chronos? Tempest? Too big and omnipotent. The little fat thing might grow into a name like that, but highly unlikely. Beagles just weren't…impressive. Great Danes on the other hand…and he shakes his head to clear it of reverie, bringing himself back to the task at hand. Kirk kneels on the heated ground, indulging the puppy in its greeting ceremony, before putting the harness on.

As soon as he feels the touch of the harness, the little beagle – Admiral? Herman? Porthos? – becomes all business. All traces of casualness are gone, and he is focused. Pride flows through Kirk – the puppy is learning quickly.

"Hup hup, you!" he says, and the dog attaches itself to his side, in perfect heel position. For that, it earns a treat, which it eagerly accepts. Even replicated dog biscuits are, apparently, delicious.

They have all made a habit of these, the evening walks. His Bridge Officers are dispersed throughout the camp, enjoying the company of the crew spread out in the night. Kirk is even beginning to notice a sprinkling of Vulcans in the midst of the Starfleet members they work with during the day. He is heartened by the sight, and hopes it means they are getting along better in their teams. Kirk can understand how hard it is for the sometimes overly-emotional Starfleet officers to get used to the closed off nature of the Vulcans.

The puppy and he begin with the campfires farthest from their own, the security teams at the very edges of the encampment. So far, there have been no alarms raised by the watch, but that does not mean they are relaxing vigilance. When not taking a shift on guard duty, the security officers have been instrumental in helping the work crews accomplish some tricky maneuvers. The engineers know what they are doing, but sometimes some old fashioned elbow grease will work better than any complicated plan.

They no longer key up the moment they see their captain coming towards them, knowing by now that it is purely a social visit. He goes from campfire to campfire, getting a feel for the different segments in the camp, and making sure everything is still running comfortably and smoothly. There are still awkward interactions between him and the crew, as to be expected, but whenever that occurs he gives the puppy a covert hand signal. This signal he's named "random cute things" – the perfect ice breakers. The puppy is always waiting expectantly for that particular sign, as it means much petting and gushing over him by the crew.

The puppy loves gushing. It works better than any treat could to reinforce the behavior that Kirk is trying to elicit from him. The ladies especially enjoy his antics, cuddling the puppy to them when he's being especially adorable. That's the main reason that Kirk keeps the harness on. The little boy is well behaved, and would stay by his side without the restraint – but the harness is the only thing stopping the puppy from being abducted by well meaning admirers. And Kirk can't have that.

This evening, after he's finished with traversing the Starfleet tent-network, he decides to travel to the Vulcan side and see how they are faring. It's the first time he's been willing to go over, but thinks it is wise. It also will abate some of the regret he is still feeling, following his blunder this afternoon.

And so he and his loyal companion cross the invisible line onto the quiet side of the camp. Whereas the Starfleet sections are loud and boisterous and full of laughter, the Vulcan campfires are calm and subdued. There is the murmur of hushed conversations, but no raucous cheers and occasional arguments. The stillness is unsettling, and yet Kirk forges ahead. Makes his way from campfire to campfire, talking quietly with the small family units. They seem…unsure…of what to make of his intrusion, but he is never turned away.

After several stops at the fires, he is comfortable with the quietness of the Vulcans. He is embraced by the solitude in their places; the stillness is pleasant, and pleasurable, in its own way. There is no clashing of minds and loud noise, just smooth and quiet and peaceful.

The perking of the puppy's ears is the first sign that something interesting is happening. He looks up at Kirk with a curious expression on his face, and a slow wag of his tail. No anxiety, nothing to warrant worry on Kirk's part. Curious himself, he gives the puppy his head and is led deeper into the tent city.

A few moments later he begins to hear what got the beagle's attention: the soft sound of music floats on the breeze. It is beautiful, but strange to his Human ears. Now that he knows what he's searching for, he takes the lead again, threading closer to whatever is making the music.

They come upon a fire surrounded by silent groups of Vulcans, and Kirk stops before he reaches the cluster. He stays in the shadows cast by one of the tents, at the very edge of the crowd. His intention is to avoid drawing attention to himself, so that the music is not interrupted and he doesn't ruin the atmosphere for the rest of the participants. His puppy lies down quietly at his feet, and he's able to focus wholly on the musicians.

A group of younger Vulcans – appearing around his own age – are seated near the campfire, surrounded by their peers. They are playing many different instruments, including many Kirk cannot hope to identify. Even the tone of the music is different from what he is used to; instead of trying to elicit feeling and emotion, like most Earth music, this is beauty for beauty's sake. Stark, and glorious, and wonderful in its complex simplicity.

He is entranced, mesmerized…intrigued. The musicians are sunk deep into the spell that creation instills, their fingers sliding across their instruments from memory and a sense of rightness more than intention or design. The listeners in the crowd seem as mesmerized as him, silent in small groups, singles, or pairs. Somehow, Kirk never imagined that the Vulcans would be an artistic people. On first impression, art would be the exact opposite of logic, and yet…there is a structure beneath their songs, complex patterns in the cycles that twist around each other.

And it is beautiful. A soft smile whispers at the edges of his lips as he closes his eyes and devotes himself to listening. As one song winds to its close, another is lifted up, twisting on and together. He is lost in the spell until the soft sound of fabric on fabric announces a presence beside him in the shadows. With a sigh, he pulls himself up from the near-trance state he was in, and slowly opens his eyes.

To gaze at Spock's profile, the half-Vulcan beside him. His attention is seemingly on the musicians before them, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. He is limned in starlight, the stark lines of his profile softened as the light falls upon his features. Kirk is amazed at how the dark dark eyes fairly glow in the light of the two moons, contrasted brilliantly by the paleness of Spock's skin.

After a moment's hesitation, he registers that Spock is indicating they should move away. Kirk follows silently, and is led to a secluded spot between campfires. They can still clearly hear the music on the wind, and yet they are far enough away not to interrupt the peace of the other listeners.

Kirk, still wrapped in that same peace with the music threading through him, waits patiently for Spock to speak. His First Officer is not looking at him, instead gazing again at the stars in the huge, vaulted sky. He is still in a way only the Vulcans have mastered, not even a shift of weight to indicate that he lives.

"I did not expect to see you here, Captain." He murmurs into the quiet stillness.

"You know that we've been going through the camp each night, making sure everything is going smoothly."

Here, a glance at him; "Yes. But it has always been the Starfleet camps that are visited. To my knowledge, no one has attempted to visit the Vulcans."

Kirk stiffens a bit at this, but it is the truth and he cannot deny it, "That's true. But…I wanted to see how your people were doing. Their opinion and contentment is important, too. I just didn't realize how important, until today."

"I must admit, your behavior has caught me off guard. I did not surmise that anyone would have the foresight to inquire as to the wellbeing of the Vulcans" this time, the eyes stare straight at him. "I must also admit, I did not expect such diplomacy from one such as yourself."

A contrite half-smile, "Yeah. I can be pretty bad sometimes." He pauses, feeling the moment. This is the first time Spock has willingly spoken with him, and he's hoping that his instincts are right, "I wanted to apologize, Spock. What almost happened last week was unforgiveable, but if you can believe me, it's not going to happen again."

He looks squarely into those dark eyes, letting his sorrow and remorse, his conviction, show clearly on his face, "I _care_ about your people. For themselves, and not simply because they are yours. I want them to survive, and more than that I want them to prosper. Anyone that can create something this beautiful," and here he indicates the soft sounds that are still engulfing them, "Should never, ever, be removed from the universe."

Silence, as dark eyes bore into his, considering. Weighing the words against what is known of his nature. He stands straight and tall, not hiding anything from that gaze. Finally, Spock nods, and turns back to the stars above them.

"Apology accepted, Captain. I must profess a preference to return to the sight of the musicians, if you would not be averse to accompanying me?"

He smiles, softly, as part of what's weighing him down is lifted. A trickle of happiness flows through him at the invitation, "I'd love to, Commander Spock."

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay. So. Hint not enough. Let's see….. The series of books it comes from features snow white horses with the bluest of eyes? Or is that even too broad? I don't wanna give it AWAY but there's so many chapters before it actually comes up!


	8. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******************CONTEST! ******************

******************CONTEST! ******************

And we have a winner! Lita of Jupiter!

A *lot* of you were definitely on the right track, and some even guessed the right trilogy! "The Flavor of Laughter" comes from a Mercedes Lackey's book, in the Valdemar Series. The trilogy is "The Last Herald Mage" about Vanyel Ashkevron, and is in book one, Magic's Price.

The full line is "The flavor of laughter, like crisp apples." I'm not gonna tell you HOW it's gonna come up, but, yeah…keep it in mind as you read future chapters :P

 **A/N** : To all my anonymous reviewers: thank you so much for taking the time to comment on my story! I appreciate them all so very much, and I wish I could reply to each of them individually, but I can't! Just know that your words help me write just that much faster!

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Eight

* * *

**

After the initial planning and placing stages are done, the work picks up. It is easier, now, for the engineers to visualize what is to be done, and the city is emerging from the sand one building at a time. Illogically, at least in Kirk's eyes, they began with the official buildings. Tall spires, without embellishment, form the basis for most of the construction being completed. Temples, meeting places, communal areas; all are modest, complex in their simplicity. The engineers are entranced by the designs, the plans for each being circulated continuously. They have never seen blueprints like these, and the debates are endless.

During the resting period in the hottest part of the day, Kirk and Uhura have been sequestered in her tent to go over her observations in great detail. There is no longer open hostility between them, and with respect to her current relationship he has stopped flirting with her at every opportunity. Well, when he remembers to quit it. As chief xenolinguist onboard the _Enterprise_ , her skills have been vital to the efforts of the construction teams. While most of the Vulcans can speak rudimentary Basic, the Starfleet crew is greatly lacking in their ability to read and write Vulcan. Most of the building plans have been drawn up by the Vulcan architects, and it is incredibly difficult for some of the concepts to get translated properly. Though seemingly impossible, Uhura has been even more thinly spread then Kirk himself. She is literally required everywhere, at all times. And whereas with Kirk, while the crew _wants_ his opinion on some aspect or another, they _need_ Uhura's help.

Because of the constant drain on her time and energies, Uhura looks even more haggard and worn than she did at the end of the Narada incident. Kirk is beginning to worry about his Communications Officer, but he can't pull her off duty – they need her help too badly. He even feels guilty about monopolizing her time during the hottest hours, but that is unavoidable also. He needs her input on how the Vulcans and Humans are working together, and the nuances in interactions he is unable to see, that she can pick up with body language.

"And based on what I have seen, I would recommend that you remove Summal from Briggs' work team, and place him on Lieutenant Eldridge's, instead." She tells him quietly, her head pillowed in her hands atop the table. She is tracing patterns on the wood surface with a lazy finger, her focus internal as she recalls necessary details.

He doesn't reply, scribbling furiously on the PADD in his hands. Kirk can't help but continue to glance up at her from time to time. Uhura has been distracted ever since their work began, but in the last several days it has gotten even worse.

Taking a chance, he broaches the subject, "Is there something on your mind?"

Her finger stills its movement, and she self-consciously lifts her gaze to his.

"No, nothing. Why do you ask?" her voice is flat, as she pulls any emotion from it.

He pulls back a little, not expecting this type of reaction, but committed to the course now, "You just haven't seemed yourself since we arrived on the planet. Distracted, worried about something."

The shutters across her expression slip a little, and Kirk glimpses a deep-seated worry underneath the surface. With a flash of intuition, he realizes that she hasn't spoken to anyone conversationally outside of their group of Bridge Officers. No friends to confide in…. The insight hardens his resolve, and he pushes forward.

"Just in case you ever want to talk about anything, I'm always here for you. As your commanding officer, and more importantly, as a friend. It's never good to keep things inside, and I happen to be great at listening." He offers, not pushing, but certainly not letting the topic drop either.

She turns her gaze back to her fingers previously splayed on the tabletop, as they clench into a fist. Her fingernails press tightly against her skin, before she releases her palm, mesmerized by the indentations left in the soft flesh.

Her lips part to speak, then she stops herself. Tries again, "Have you noticed that these Vulcans are…not exactly like the others we are familiar with?"

A furrow appears between his brows, as he tries to determine where she's headed with the conversation – where her true question lies, "Yes, but…he is just one Vulcan. And a Half-Vulcan at that. He's not going to be representative of the entire race." Or what's left of it, he fails to add.

"That's true," her hands begin picking at the frayed edge of plastic edging the table, "but he would have us believe that all Vulcans behave like him. Never betraying anything but the purest form of logic. But I have seen –"

She stops herself with a visible effort, "Never mind, Kirk. I'm just overreacting to things, and I don't want to drag you into anything."

The furrow develops into a completely visible frown, but she has already pulled away from him. Any trace of the openness that was there a moment before is completely erased, and she is back to the professional she was previously.

"I don't believe you, but I can't make you change your mind. So, the offer still stands; if you ever need anyone to talk to – for any reason – I'm here for you." He restates, before turning back to the task at hand.

Diligently, he begins entering data into his PADD again. He does not look up as he senses eyes on him from across the table, considering.

Or when a soft murmur reaches his ears, before they begin the never-ending task yet again.

"Thank you, Kirk."

* * *

To keep everyone sane, and able to function properly, they are given one day to rest out of every seven. Kirk has been resolute, and his services have been needed, so he had yet to take his. But as expected, the lack of time to himself has worn on him, and he gives in to his Officers' suggestion and takes a much needed break.

He is intent on finishing one more thing before he is officially "off" for a twenty four hour period. But before he does, he needs to pick up some supplies; he can't be sure Bones will be awake when he gets back. Typically, when anyone else is granted a free day, they gather with the others that are off; Kirk is going to spend his free day sleeping. Deeply. He's had far too much of people, recently, and relishes the thought of silence.

The surly doctor looks up as he enters, immediately inspecting his friend and finding far too many signs of stress.

"God damnit, kid, you're gonna run yourself into the ground if you're not careful." he grumbles, setting the delicate instruments off to the side as he devotes his attention to his friend.

"I know, I know. But there's just so much that needs to be done –" he tries to stave off a tirade, but Bones has already begun and there's no stopping it.

"You obviously _don't_ know, or you would have stopped long before this! Do you _know_ what all that adrenaline is doing to your system? It runs through your blood, little razors that _shred_ the inside of your arteries and veins. The tiny capillaries get destroyed if it is in them too long, and I know you've been keyed up much longer than healthy. And you've _certainly_ not been getting enough sleep. And I can guarantee you aren't eating properly, and if you don't take care of yourself I'm going to have to force you to –" as he speaks, his voice raises in pitch and his face gets redder and redder.

Trying to placate, Kirk holds up a hand. Soothe, quiet, quiet, relax – "I know, Bones, I know. You've told me a hundred times what I'm doing to myself, and I believe you. But that's why I have you, so when I can't take anymore you'll tell me."

The doctor grumbles to himself under his breath, still glaring at Kirk, but calmer.

"I'd keep giving you a lecture, but I know you are resting tomorrow, so I'll let it be done with." another narrow gaze, testing and finding lacking, "Well, out with it! I can tell you came here for something, and it better not be my stash. You need to rest, not spend your entire day with a hangover!"

A grin and he fails to remind Bones that he let his secret out, and Kirk knows there's a remedy for that; "I came 'cause I need something to help me sleep. Once I pass out, I don't wanna wake up for at least twelve hours."

Bones nods once, sharply, and then is off his bed and dashing around his tent.

"I know I have something already made here _somewhere_ that'll serve perfectly. Let's see if I can remember where I put it…" Boxes overturned, upended, and emptied. Minutes later, Bones' emerges from the wreckage he caused with a hypo in his hand.

Makes to pounce on Kirk, a feral grin on his face.

Kirk backs away, towards the door, hands out in a protective stance. "No no no, not right now! I still have to check on everything aboard the _Enterprise_ before I can go to bed!"

Bones brakes his forward momentum, coming to a rest before his friend. Places the hypo in his outstretched hand. "Fine. But if I hear one _peep_ from you before everyone returns for lunch, I'm personally holding you down and stabbing you so full of needles you'll look like a pincushion."

His expression shows he means it. And Kirk certainly isn't going to give him a reason to try out his plan.

"That's my intention." An awkward pause, as Bones' arms cross and he is subject to a direct, calculating glare. He stands straight under the onslaught; don't show any fear, or the vicious beast will attack.

"Then get outta here and get that done with! The quicker you're back, and _asleep_ , the happier I'll be! And remember, your tent is right next to mine and _I can hear you breathing._ " Bones threatens.

Kirk mock-shivers at the threat, and taps his communicator.

"One to beam up."

He grins and waves goodbye to Bones, and right before he disappears he sticks his tongue out at his friend.

* * *

"Kirk! Captain Kirk!" the voice is familiar, the words pitched to carry but not holding any discernable frustration or urgency. They pull him out of the gently rocking waves of unconsciousness, dragging him to the surface of his mind. With an effort, he rises out of sleep, blinking in confusion.

The puppy acknowledges his re-emergence into the waking world by licking his fingers, tongue soft and damp. No barking. Someone familiar to the dog as well. Kirk groans quietly to himself, and rolls into a seating position.

"Captain! Are you available, so that we may converse with you?" sharp ears pick up his movement and a different voice calls, sterner than the first.

Rubbing the gunk out of his eyes, he rises and drags on his pants. He covers a yawn as he pulls open the tent flap, the puppy peeking out from behind his heels.

"Oh. Hi, Surel. Did I sleep through our lunch meeting?"

She extends an infinitesimal nod in his direction in greeting, then glances at the adult Vulcan beside her, "Indeed, sir, the afternoon meal was exactly 1.35 hours ago."

Leaning haphazardly against the pole in the center of the entryway, he scratches the back of his scalp. Turns his attention to the stiff, unknown female beside his friend. Resists the urge to hold out his hand to shake.

"Salutations." He says in proper greeting, nodding only slightly more than Surel did to acknowledge him.

"Salutations, Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the starship _Enterprise_. Forgive our intrusion, we did not mean to offend." Her nod is deep, and honoring, "I am T'Prala, keeper of the young ones. I come with a request for your aid."

Kirk shifts from his comfortable pose, letting the Vulcan know that he is giving her his complete attention. He can see the slight signs of tautness around her eyes; can feel the anxiety coiled tightly inside her.

"I have been called away for the remainder of the afternoon, and because of this the younglings will be left without a keeper. My fellow Vulcans are also detained, and cannot be removed from their duties. The youngling Surel," and the teacher indicates the child beside her with her hand, "indicated that since you were a trustworthy individual, as a Starfleet Captain, and were on your day of rest, it may be possible to persuade you to take up the task of keeping the young ones."

He freezes, taken completely by surprise. Children? No no no, he's not any good with those – too much talking, and running and it's so hard to know what to do when you're playing with them – and then he remembers who they're talking about. Kirk highly doubts that Vulcan young are prone to chattering continuously, or play the games that he's used to.

T'Prala senses his unease, and bows her head low in supplication, "We would be greatly indebted to you, Captain, if you could find it within yourself to spend several hours of your time supervising our young ones so that their parental units would be free to attend their assigned tasks."

He really doesn't like children. At all. And yet, he can't just abandon them if they need him. He spares a glance at Surel, who is watching him unblinking. She has not said a word throughout the entire exchange, yet she has followed his every movement with her eyes.

"How long would my help be needed?" he asks, reluctantly releasing the words. His dream of silence for a day disappearing.

Stiffness somehow conveying hope as T'Prala answers; "The younglings are supervised until their parents are freed from their building responsibilities, typically .25 hours before the evening meal commences. That would indicate, based on current time – inaccurate as it may be, as your services are not being used presently – your assistance would be required for 3.75 hours."

Three hours and forty five minutes. Not unbearable, then. Resigned, he nods, "Then my services are freely given. I am honored that I would be considered for such an important task." Spock's reaction was going to be highly entertaining when he heard about this.

Surel is grinning with her eyes, and the tension around T'Prala's eyes has eased. The adult's gaze lowers pointedly to the broad – exposed – expanse of Kirk's chest, and then rises to his eyes again.

"Then if you would properly attire yourself, I can lead you to where the younglings are kept during the day. I would request that you make haste, as I do not have unlimited time."

He looks down at himself, suddenly embarrassed – but not quite sure why. Like the rest of the crew – excluding Spock – nearly their entire stay on the planet, he has been wearing as little clothing as possible. His skin is baked to a warm honey brown, and his golden hair is almost glowing with sun-bleached highlights. Kirk self-consciously scratches his side, grunts, and disappears into his tent. Reappears a moment later clothed in his – too hot hot hot! – command tunic.

"Hup hup!" he calls as he exits his tent, and the pup trots obediently over to his side. With the entire crew occupied, it is safe to have him out in the camp unharnessed. No fear of abduction during daylight. After he's zipped up the tent, he turns to face T'Prala and his young friend. He can already feel sweat trickling down his spine and gathering under his arms, and shoots a covert glance at the Vulcans. He still hasn't figured out how they are able to walk around in thick _layers_ of cloth. Even in the hottest part of the day. Kirk has simply come to the conclusion that all desert peoples are slightly crazy, especially when they prefer this high of temperatures.

The trio makes their way into the constructed parts of the city; tall buildings shelter them from some of the heat from the sun. T'Prala leads him up to the entryway of one of the many communal buildings, where he pauses. Shifts his attention to the dog waiting expectantly at his calf.

"Stand. Guard." He instructs, giving the devoted beagle the corresponding hand signals. The animal immediately turns to face the empty street; every line of his body in readiness as his eyes continuously scan the surrounding environs.

T'Prala looks down at the small form, a skeptical eyebrow rising on her face.

Kirk replies to the unasked question, and the inferred disrespect, "He's not intended to keep anything from entering. He knows his purpose is to warn me that something's coming, so I can defend myself. And in this case, the children." Or so he tells the Vulcan; in actually, Kirk is just using the opportunity as a training exercise, to see how long the puppy can focus on a given task.

The eyebrow resumes its normal position, and she bows slightly in apology, "Then he is a wise and loyal animal, deserving of his place at your side." she responds, before striding into the building.

He gathers his nerves to him, and follows her into the relative coolness of the shadows. After a brief murmur of explanation to the children awaiting them expectantly, she is gone. Kirk turns to his charges, many pairs of unknown, unblinking eyes staring up at him with interest. Clears his throat, pulling at the collar of his golden tunic.

He glances at Surel for help, but sees that she has shuttered herself off in the presence of the other children. The solemn, quiet child is back to the level of shyness she had when he first met her. He returns his gaze to the other children before him, uncomfortable under their scrutiny.

"Hey, kids, how are you today?" he fumbles out lamely. So very pathetic, but it's the first thing that pops into his brain and he needs to break the silence before he explodes. Belatedly, he realizes that Human children and their constant noise may be better then these silent little faces. Kirk scratches an itchy spot on his chest, and a damp splotch blossoms on the front of his tunic.

Many little pairs of eyes are immediately drawn to the darkened fabric, and then alight on the moisture trickling down his brow and glistening in his hair. One tiny little boy – five? Possibly six, if size was any indication – takes a tentative step forward, then stops himself. There is an expression in his eyes that Kirk easily recognizes, and he clings to it as something familiar in this sea of alien faces.

"Fascinating." The little boy says in Vulcan, his attention keenly focused on the beads of liquid on Kirk's skin, his voice not betraying any of the interest displayed in his gaze, "Why does your skin release moisture in such a way? What purpose could it possibly serve?"

Kirk runs his fingers over his forehead, bringing the damp digits down so he can look at them himself, answering clearly in the same language, "You mean, why do I sweat?"

At the motion, the little boy scuttles closer, curiosity winning out over his apprehension. "'Sweat.'" he repeats softly to himself, "The liquid substance is called 'sweat.'"

"The process itself is also called 'sweat'" Kirk responds automatically, and from the corners of his eyes he sees the other Vulcan children leaning in slightly, revealing their own interest. He latches onto the reaction, grateful for something beyond the awful silent scrutiny of moments before, "Our Human bodies release sweat when we are overheating. The heat will evaporate the moisture, and we'll be cooled off during the process."

A collective sigh of amazement goes through the crowd of small beings, and all the children shift just a fraction closer to him. The boy before him looks into his face now, instead of at the sheen on top of it, "That is not a logical process. Would it not be better to redirect the heat yourself, and lower your internal temperature several degrees until you are free of the danger of overheating?"

So _that's_ how they do it! A gleam enters his eyes, as he files the information away for further consideration, "We don't have control of our bodies the way you guys do. Our bodies need to be able to regulate things like that automatically, without our input."

A snort escapes the little body before him, and then a flush of green as his eyes dart quickly back and forth. Surel frowns at his display of emotion, but is quickly distracted as Kirk continues.

"And it's not just Humans. I don't know of any being on our planet that can do what you guys can. In fact, the way some of the creatures get rid of access body heat is even crazier than sweat…" considering, he jumps to a quick decision and lets out a short whistle. The children jerk at the sound, their eyes widening even more. Compared to the adults he has witnessed, these Vulcans are ridiculously easy to read. The older they are, the less evident it is, but it is obvious that they feel. The control over their emotions must be a learned state, not a natural part of their behavior.

It takes several moments, and then the sound of clicking can be heard approaching them. The children stiffen, automatically gathering together with Kirk between them and the sound. The puppy trots into view, his nails clacking against the hard floor of the room, tail a wagging banner behind him. If Surel's reaction was any indication, the other children were going to _love_ him, and have plenty of questions to occupy them for three or so hours.

The young bodies shift closer to him, tension thrumming through them. The little boy is hiding behind Kirk's knees, staring out as the puppy approaches. Kirk catches as Surel's body tenses into rigid lines, her eyes glaring daggers at the younger boy. She doesn't speak, but he can clearly see how upset she is that someone else is so close to him.

"Surel, why don't you tell us what this is?" he asks into the hushed quiet, the puppy standing expectantly in front of him with eyes trained on his face. Waiting with a gentle wag of the tail.

She stares at him, hard, her horrified look quickly smoothed over into proper blankness. But instead of challenging him, like it seems she wants to, she addresses the rest of the children.

"This is a specimen of _Canis Familiaris_ _, a species of omnivore_ common to the Earth biosphere."

A gasp from several of the young Vulcans, and the puppy can't stand it anymore. He moves forward, intent on snuffling one of the warm bodies in front of him. The child who has the puppy's attention squeaks in terror.

A sharp command from Surel in English, "Sit!" and the puppy immediately responds, his rump magically and instantaneously attached to the floor. He looks over his shoulder at her, confusion in his brown eyes. His tail stops wagging, and he begins to pant in the enclosed air of the room.

Before the situation can get out of control, Kirk brings attention back to himself, "That's right, Surel. And what he's doing right now is exactly what I wanted to show you guys. See how he's running air over his tongue and big floppy lips? This is how some land animals of Earth cool themselves off. The same principle as sweat, but they don't have any water glands in their skin. Instead, they use the evaporation of saliva to cool their bodies."

The little boy that spoke first leans forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Truly? That is indeed strangely fascinating. "

"It's also a nervous reflex." Kirk continues, slipping the puppy a treat to get him to relax a bit more, "This is the first time he's met any children, and like me, he's awfully worried about making a good first impression." A little exaggeration never hurt anyone. And if it makes the children more comfortable in their presence, all the better.

All of them calm down a fraction of a breath, moving forward once again as their inquisitiveness wins out. Then a young girl, silent up until now but with wonder in her eyes, asks "Does he have any other commands besides this…" and her tongue stumbles over the foreign word, "'sit'?"

Kirk grins widely, his eyes alighting on Surel, "Would you show them some of his tricks?"

She hesitates, taking in the other children's expectant, interested gazes. Nodding, she slowly comes forward and joins the group crowding around the puppy.

(*)

Quicker than expected, he hears soft footfalls coming towards them through the hallway. They are assured, confident, striding forward with purpose and intent. Each step lands precisely as the one before, the rhythm perfect.

They are seated in the middle of the empty room, resting easily on the floor. Kirk's in the middle of a loose circle of children, sprawled on the floor with the puppy resting comfortably on his chest, answering their myriad questions. After several hours, they are completely comfortable with him, and he with them, and their little faces are open and excited. They are open with their curiosity as well, asking him whatever comes into their minds. They have so many things they want to know about Earth and its inhabitants, and he is the first real contact they've had with one of its denizens. Even though they were on Earth for several weeks, they were sequestered and sheltered by their parents, and had no exposure to anything outside the buildings of Starfleet Academy. Their thirst for knowledge is unquenchable, and they are interested in such a wide variety of topics – their questions range from simple, unanswerable inquiries like "what does meat taste like?" to equations so complex that he'd need Chekov's help interpreting them properly. And there have been some genuinely funny word mix-ups, as he's had them all switch to Human so the little Vulcans can get some practice in the language.

Kirk is actually upset that their time together is coming to a close; the footsteps remind him that he has other duties to attend, as well. But there's time for one more question.

"Your turn, Durak."

The little boy gets up on his knees and slides into the center of the circle, giving the puppy its requisite scratches while he asks his question.

"We have heard of these performance masters that travel your world in small animal driven conveyances, with their visually altered and athletically gifted attractions. Their purpose confounds us. Even more so when we are given descriptions of the abilities of these individuals, including a maneuver expressed as 'standing on ones hands.' How is one able to stand on their own grasping appendages, and what purpose does it serve?"

Kirk's eyes scrunch up as he thinks about his answer, and then he gently pushes the puppy off his chest and onto the floor. "Well, to answer it'd just be easier to show you what a handstand is. As far as the purpose of such a feat, it's generally considering entertainment. It's also useful for some acrobatic exercises."

He stands, balancing on the balls of his feet as he prepares himself. With the grace of long practice he executes a forward roll, placing both hands palm down on the ground, and flipping his legs up in the air at the same moment. The children around him gasp in astonishment, their little hands clapping together in their surprise. Then he does one better, and begins walking on his hands. Rings the circle of children, the dog yipping as it follows him around.

It begins as a smile, one of the littler ones letting it slip. It spreads like wildfire as he begins comically running from the dog – still on his hands. And then the emotion is set free, and everyone in the circle is laughing at their antics. The joy is purely evident on their faces, and some of them have to hold their sides because they are giggling so hard.

That is, until a sharply disapproving noise cuts through the mood in the room. Doused in a heartbeat, the children revert to solemn, silent little creatures. Kirk feels a pang of loss as their expressions shutter closed, and they are no longer children but miniature Vulcans once again.

Quickly righting himself – feet to floor, standing tall – he can feel the blood that was pooled in his head correct itself. Shaking himself, he turns and faces the adult that has come to gather the children.

Spock. The half-Vulcan is expectantly waiting, his focus entirely on Kirk. His left eyebrow is cocked at an angry angle, but otherwise there is no emotion evident on his face.

"What is the meaning of this display?" somehow his question encompasses Kirk's behavior, the dog's, and the children's. The young Vulcans in the room shift in minute little ways, but otherwise perfectly hide their shame and embarrassment.

Kirk shifts his weight to one foot, bearing the brunt of Spock's onslaught, "It was my fault, Mr. Spock. I was simply answering some of their questions, and I let things get out of hand."

His First Officer levels a Vulcan glare at him, and then turns to the children, "It is your fault as well, younglings. You have been drilled from birth in proper decorum and how to conduct yourself at all times. Rest assured, this will be reported to your parental units. Now, leave us, as it is time for the evening period of sustenance."

Many heads nod in acknowledgement, and then they file silently out the door. As she's leaving, Surel turns and glances at Kirk one last time, apology bright in her eyes. The two adults are left alone in the building, the high-ceilinged space feeling even more like a church in the silence.

Kirk shifts uncomfortably, lone subject of Spock's scrutiny.

Spock is the first to break the silence, "That was on purpose, was it not?"

Rubs the base of his neck – so tight tight _tight_ all of a sudden– doesn't look him in the eyes. "I had no idea what question Durak was going to ask! I was just showing them the answer, that's all!"

A look that speaks volumes, telling him that Spock isn't fooled, "You know that is not what was meant by my inquiry. You were trying to elicit emotions from the young ones. As you have done to me, on multiple occasions. What is it that compels you to undermine our control every opportunity you get?"

The question emerges more curious then irate, Spock's confusion evident in the tilt of his head. Kirk smiles, a slow lazy smile as he realizes that Spock isn't really angry at him at all.

Instead of answering, he turns to the pup sitting quietly at his feet, "It's ridiculously hot with all these clothes on, isn't it, Archie?"

One of his hands is hidden from Spock by the weight of his body, and he twists it into a covert hand signal. The dog immediately whimpers and begins flailing on the ground, ending on his back with his head covered by his paws. Kirk grins, and glances up at Spock.

"See, he agrees with me."

"Indeed. A fascinating display, and yet, what is the purpose of the demonstration?" Kirk isn't fooled by Spock's "not amused" face, his grin widening at his friend.

"Only that normal people – and of course I'm including Archie as normal – are affected by this preposterous heat! I always wondered how you crazy Vulcans were able to stand places like this, and now I know. You have conscious control of your internal body temperature!" Kirk explains, crowing at his own ingenuity.

"If you had only asked, I could have enlightened you to that fact quite some time ago." Now there is definite amusement lurking in the recesses of Spock's eyes, as Kirk's expression falls.

"Oh. I see. But that kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn't it?"

"Indeed. Having previously been made aware of your desire to discern these facts on your own, I had avoided explaining the details of Vulcan biology."

Kirk freezes at the unexpected admission. "You…intentionally allowed me to continue, knowing it would make me happy?"

Spock stiffens visibly at the question, but replies, "That is correct. I believed the benefits of my omission would far outweigh any delay in your receiving the knowledge."

His most blinding smile suffuses his features, as the thought of Spock wanting him happy spreads warmly through him. Spock nods, once, at his expression.

"And once again, my assumptions are proven correct. I am pleased." Smug Vulcan face, entirely warranted. An awkward silence for a moment, before Spock turns to the dog at Kirk's feet, "Am I correct, in that you referred to the canine as 'Archie' twice previously?"

"Yup." Kirk says, leaning down to pet the happy animal. He isn't going to offer any more information, just see if Spock asks the right question.

"Typically, the form of that noun would indicate that 'Archie' is a shortened form of a different name. Would his full designation be 'Archibald'?"

Right direction, wrong question. But Kirk decides to give him the point anyway, and he owes him for the warm-fuzzy feeling in his belly, "Not quite. His proper name is 'Archer.'"

A raised eyebrow, "And this is in no way indicative of the presumed origin of the animal, I assume?"

He gives an easy grin, "Nope. Why on Earth would you think that?"

"But we are not on Earth. Therefore, I am thinking it on New Vulcan."

A groan in response, as his palm connects with his forehead, hiding the smile that is still on his face, "It's just an expression, Spock."

The eyebrow stays in its elevated position, "I see."

He chuckles softly, stopping his hand from squeezing a shoulder in companionship, "No you don't, Spock. But that's one of the reasons why I enjoy your company."

In the days since his apology, the Captain and First Officer have been spending more and more time together, as their duties intersect. Kirk has found many examples to reinforce the rightness of his decision to have Spock in his crew, and has confidently moved the half-Vulcan into "friend" status with the rest of the Bridge Officers.

"Then I am indeed fortunate, as I do not believe you will cease using metaphor in the future."

Kirk's face scrunches to the side as he pretends to consider the words, then the inevitable grin appears, "Nah, probably not!"

Then, as he turns to lead his friend to the meal ready at the campfire, and a night spent together threading through crew and Vulcan camps, he hears a quiet murmur behind him.

"I look forward to it, Captain."

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter was SO MUCH fun to write…and it seems that whenever I am writing a scene with Spock and Kirk, it just keeps GOING and it's almost like they write themselves. My plot outline literally will have, like, a sentence, saying generally what they're supposed to talk about. And then it just FLOWS onto the page and I always have trouble ending their conversations. They could just keep going on and on and on (especially the stuff I'm writing right now, that you guys haven't gotten to see yet!)

I know this particular ability of Vulcans isn't actually cannon. But. They are desert dwellers…all desert dwellers *have* to have a way to regulate their body temperature, and release excess heat. A lot of them will have large thin surfaces coated with blood vessels (think giant ears on Fennecs), or are cold blooded so that when they enter shadows the heat actually leaves their systems. Vulcans wear a LOTTTT of clothes, and they obviously don't have sweat glands (I still can't explain why Amanda wasn't all coated in sweat, and was as clothed same as the Vulcans. I put it down to "movie magic" and leave it at that), but they CAN control their internal systems. Made sense to me XDDD

Oh. And Bones + Tiny Vulcans in one chapter? MY HEAD NEARLY 'SPLODED WHEN I WROTED THIS.


	9. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : I have noticed that some people write a "soundtrack" to their fanfictions. I really only have about seven songs that I've listened to the entire time I've been writing this. I'll usually find the one that gets the inspiration flowing, and stick it on repeat. The entire time I write the scene/chapter.

**A/N** : I have noticed that some people write a "soundtrack" to their fanfictions. I really only have about seven songs that I've listened to the entire time I've been writing this. I'll usually find the one that gets the inspiration flowing, and stick it on repeat. The entire time I write the scene/chapter.

Those songs are:

Untouchable by Taylor Swift

Superstar by Taylor Swift

Jump Then Fall by Taylor Swift

Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart by Alicia Keys

Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis

They Don't Care About Us by Michael Jackson

Stay Beautiful by DIGGY-MO'

Juves by DIGGY-MO'

The first 5 are unrequited love/love from afar. Michael Jackson is for ACTION MOMENTS! And DIGGY-MO' gives me all the happy scenes (mostly Kirk Sulu Chekov times). As you can tell, there is VERY MUCH a theme to what I'm writing. You can also tell that my tastes…vary. XD

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Nine

* * *

**

"Where are you going, this early?" He asks Bones, as the doctor hurries about the camp, gathering medical supplies and stuffing them into a carry-bag.

The doctor grunts, not even bothering to raise his head from his task as he replies, "Tupak and I are going over a technique for bone grafting that we've been refining. He wanted to meet with me early so we'd have plenty of time to experiment properly before it gets too dark to see."

Uhura, Spock, and Kirk are the only Bridge Officers currently at the campfire, eating breakfast quietly together. Kirk is seated across the fire from the couple, facing outward in case anyone comes needing his attention. The two are seated close, but not touching, occupied with their food until Kirk's conversation with Bones interrupts their thoughts.

"Do you know where Hikaru and the others are?" he asks Bones, who shakes his head in frustration.

"Nope." Then he pauses, continues, "I can guess that Sulu is with that crazy Vulcan pilot – the one that had that theory about that one thing or another. They were discussing something mighty deeply last night while you two were off chatting up the crew."

He stomps over to the tent in the corner, sticks his head in, and emerges grumbling to himself, "The whiz kid is still sound asleep, but he should really wake up soon. That little gel that follows you like she's a flower and you're the sun in the sky should be here any minute."

"Surel? I was wondering why I hadn't seen her in a while."

"Yeah, that's the one. Apparently her, Chekov, and several of the other younger people have gotten together and are plotting. Something about 'new blood versus old' and a competition with a group of older Starfleet and Vulcans. An impromptu marathon, I think it was?"

He stops his frantic movement for a minute to scratch the side of his head, "As for the rest of 'em – especially that crazy Scotsman – well, they could be anywhere. There are so many projects that need to get finished and so little time to do it in, with less than a week before we're gone."

Kirk is not surprised. The building, while still the priority, is not the only project currently underway. The crew had come up with myriad little ways to help make the Vulcans' transition easier, and everyone is working at a fever pitch to make sure everything gets finished in time. And if not finished, at least far enough along so that the ship that relieves them will be able to continue the work. There is also a giant exchange of information going on, as people share new ways of doing and thinking about things. Neither side is going to be quite the same when the _Enterprise_ takes off.

"Ahh-ha!" Bones cries, as he finds his last piece of equipment and crams it into the already overflowing satchel, "That should be all that I need, for now anyway. I'll see you three at dinner."

And without bothering to wait for a reply, the distracted doctor is gone. Kirk is left alone with the couple, and an ominous silence ensues. He knows it's not his presence that makes it awkward; he is getting along wonderfully well with both of them. But whenever the two are together, there is tension in the air. It radiates off Uhura in waves, and for some reason Spock is oblivious – or impervious – to its existence. The Vulcan continues eating his breakfast while Uhura keeps shooting glances at him from the corner of her eye.

Kirk doesn't quite know what to do…he's offered Uhura an ear to listen – not that she's accepted – but he can't imagine Spock acknowledging such an offer. It would probably be a grave insult to insinuate that Spock had emotions he'd need to talk about. The uncomfortable situation is rubbing him raw, especially because he seems to be the only one conscious of it. When he asked the other Officers – Bones, Chekov, Scotty, Sulu – they had no idea what he was talking about. When pressed, Bones' response was that since he and Kirk didn't have any experience with functional relationships, they should just let things be and the couple would work it out themselves.

But things are getting worse instead of better, and Kirk doesn't want his friends upset – or, friend. Based on Spock's behavior so far, Kirk can't quite tell if the half-Vulcan would behave any differently if he and Uhura weren't boyfriend and girlfriend. He certainly doesn't act like any other male Kirk has observed in a long term relationship.

He clears his throat uncomfortably, earning him a glare from Uhura and a quiet blink from Spock, "Do you require a liquid substance to clear your airway?"

Shaking his head quickly, he focuses on his food to avoid Uhura's piercing eyes. It's not his fault the air is so thick with tension he feels like he is choking.

Thankfully, Chekov saves him by emerging groggily from his tent, his thin chest bare in the early morning heat. His hair is as bleached as Kirk's, but whereas the Captain's skin has been tanned a deep honey color, Chekov's looks like he's in a perpetual state of burn. Angry red on top, with pasty white shining where the sun doesn't hit it; his shoulders, nose and back are also peeling in big patches. Bones has given up trying to screen the kid from the harsh effects of the sun, and is instead just treating the symptoms. He is fortunate that skin cancer is no longer a concern, and it is just pain and discomfort that Chekov has to deal with.

Not bothering to conceal a yawn, the young man sinks bonelessly into one of the seats around the fire. Without a word, Kirk spoons him a serving of the random mush that is the last of their rations. With so little time to go before everyone is back on the ship, they have stopped ferrying supplies back and forth. Anything left here won't be brought back to the _Enterprise_ , so they need to finish off the remaining provisions.

Chekov takes the bowl with barely a nod of thanks, his eyes trained on the flames before him as he gives off his patented "don't talk to me it's too early in the morning" vibes. Kirk has been trying to emulate them for some time, but they are having about as much effect as the Chekov-pout. And unlike his navigator, his opinion – and ability to talk – is often required in the morning, and he doesn't have the luxury of waking up slowly.

But with Chekov not speaking, it means Kirk doesn't have a distraction from the situation before him. His only option is to get out of here as quickly as he can, and so he begins shoveling his food in his mouth. Three bites – albeit big ones – and he's finished, and placing his bowl in the stack of dirty dishes waiting to be washed.

"Checking on Archie," he mumbles unnecessarily, as he retreats to the safety of his tent. The thin fabric walls do nothing to block out sound, and the silence follows Kirk inside. He kneels on the ground and rolls the puppy onto its back for scritches, visually checking the food and water bowls. After a minute or so, he can hear Spock pick up a thread of conversation, softly talking to Uhura about one of the experiments currently going on aboard the _Enterprise_. She answers easily enough, but there is a decided lack of warmth in her responses. It makes Kirk even happier that he's inside his tent. He would pity Chekov for being stuck out there with them, but it's obvious that they're ignoring his presence, and the whiz kid certainly isn't conscious enough to catch the undertones of what's happening. He's safe, for now.

After a couple more minutes of petting, even the puppy is losing interest. There's only a limited amount of time he can pretend to be occupied in his tent, and he really does have other duties waiting for him outside.

Just as he's trying to find an excuse for how to pull Spock away from Uhura so they can start their day, he hears another voice join the duo outside. Quiet, but with more assurance then it had when she first met Kirk, the voice rises in greeting and interrupts the couple's muted conversation.

"Hey Surel." Chekov mumbles, and Kirk can _hear_ him yawn, "It's time to go already, yes?"

Kirk chuckles softly to himself at his friend, gives Archie one last pat, and exits his tent into the lightening morning. The three Starfleet Officers are facing away from his tent, so Surel is the first to see him come out. The expression that appears on her face, while not as evident as it would be on a Human, is obvious to anyone who knows the signs. Uhura does, and she whips around to see what has captivated the Vulcan so. When she sees that it is only Kirk, she turns to regard Surel with a deep, considering gaze. Before she is turned completely away, he sees something like anger buried beneath the surface.

A flash of that same emotion flickers through him before burning out – that anger better not be directed at him. Kirk's done nothing to encourage the way Surel feels about him, all he's done for the young girl is be the friend she so desperately needed.

Chekov is waking up more as every second goes by, and at this point he is animated in his discussion with the Vulcan. There is very little trace of the shyness that controlled the girl just weeks ago, and Kirk is proud of his handiwork. If she can converse easily with people her own age, he has accomplished what he set out to do.

"I hear you're putting together a marathon?" he asks as he joins the group at the fire, ignoring the fact that Surel is staring a bit more than strictly necessary. Uhura's eyes jump from Surel, to Kirk, to Spock, and back again, and it is hard for him to determine exactly what is going on in her thoughts. Although she had been talking before, Uhura stops the moment he steps into view, and her posture is getting stiffer and stiffer as time passes.

Strangely enough, her anger does not seem directed at either Surel or Kirk, but at Spock – who is contributing to the two young people's conversation, unaware.

"That is correct, Captain Kirk." Surel answers, nodding her greeting, "The marathon will take place on the day of celebration, prior to the banquet held in your ship's honor."

"And they're letting Chekov run in it? Do they know who he is?" a wry glance in the younger man's direction, as the Russian shifts uncomfortably.

And defends himself; "Zhey were at zhe Academy! It is not my fault zhey forgot! We are not hiding zhe information, just not…helping zhem remember!"

Surel turns to her partner, her head tilted quizzically to the side, "And what information is this, that we are intentionally not bringing to the attention of the others?"

"Oh ho ho!" Kirk grins, squeezing Chekov's lean shoulder, "This is the youngest student to ever win the Starfleet Academy Marathon! You might not know it by looking at him, but he's a born runner!"

The Russian blushes, bright red blooming under the darker burn. Whether from embarrassment, or the compliment, it's hard to tell. Surel's eyebrow rises at a particular angle, and in that moment she looks very much like Spock.

"Is there a specific reason why we are withholding this vital expertise from the rest of the committee on planning?"

Now Chekov shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, his embarrassment definite.

"I did not zhink it was necessary?" he glances up, but he's not fooling Surel for a moment, "Okay, I didn't want to tell zhem because I wanted to help. And I didn't zhink zhey'd let me, if zhey knew."

Worry lines appear around her eyes, as she shakes her head gently back and forth, "Come, Pavel. This is not proper. We must go speak with the others, and find out what our course of action will be."

He sighs, then nods. "You're right."

Spock has a bemused expression around his eyes, Uhura one of pinched anxiety, as the two young people say their goodbyes and disappear. The Vulcan and Human then move out of sight past a twist in the path between tents, and Kirk finds himself the focus of Spock's regard.

"It is time for us to depart, as well, is it not?"

Kirk groans aloud, as he remembers what they are going to – it's a meeting with the Vulcan High Council, to discuss how the city has progressed. Hopefully, it will go better than last time. No, he's going to make sure it goes better than last time.

"I think it is, Mr. Spock."

The half-Vulcan stands, Uhura a moment behind him. "It's time for me to get to my duties, too." She adds, looking at Spock with a desperate expression in her eyes. He startles – a slight hesitation that would not be significant for anyone else, but it is with the Vulcan.

"Of course," he says, truly looking at her for the first time that morning, "You must have much business to attend to." He leans his head down into her personal space, an intimate gesture, and then he turns away. Her nostrils flare at his closeness, and a forlorn look is apparent at the loss of his nearness. Kirk watches as her fingers reach out, as if to touch Spock's side and bring his attention back to her.

But they lower, defeated, and her head hangs dejectedly. "I'll see you later tonight, then, Spock."

Completely ignorant to the tone of her voice, and apparently the entire occurrence, he says something affirmative and strides in the direction of the meeting place. Kirk stays behind a moment, turned to her –words on the tip of his tongue, but somehow not the right thing to say – and he sighs. Shrugs eloquently, glances at Spock, then back at her.

She has such sadness in her eyes, worry and confusion. A shudder wracks through her, and then she closes everything off. Straightens her stance, throws her head back and forces pride to radiate through every line of her form. Without a word, she turns and strides off in the opposite direction.

Leaving Kirk no choice but to follow after Spock, worry a tight knot in his throat.

(*)

They are making their way through the newly built city; its edifices are strong and proud and clean, rising prominently from the desert sand. It is beautiful, in its austere way. The work crews did a magnificent job, and Kirk is nothing but amazed at their abilities. And he is stunned, anew, that these are _his_ people, his to command and direct. They put everything they had into the construction, pouring all of their hopes and regrets into making something outstanding for the Vulcans to have and call their own.

All of the completed habitations are now occupied, and they are passing a fair amount of Vulcans on their way through the city. The High Council is going over every building, discussing with the Captain and First Officer the details regarding each. Unlike their previous outing together, the High Council is full of nothing but compliments for the crew and their work. They bring up minute details every once in a while, but they are legitimate issues that Kirk is sure to take down for addressing. They seem just as genuinely pleased with the results as Kirk is, giving the Vulcan equivalent of glowing compliments.

Kirk is able to witness a transformation in his First Officer, as well. He had never realized how much more relaxed and open Spock was around the Bridge crew until now. In the presence of the other Vulcans, especially the Elders, Spock is all hard edges and formal language. He is even more proper than the Elders themselves, and Kirk wonders if anxiety may have been the reason Spock was oblivious to what was going on this morning.

No matter how much of a distraction the Vulcan High Council is, the worry wrapped around his heart refuses to leave. Kirk keeps hoping that, somehow, they'll run into Uhura and he can lock the two of them in a room until they work things out. The both of them are his friends, and he can't stand to see them like this. They deserve to be happy, and if they need some intervention to get them _back_ to that state, then he's not afraid to step in –

And that's when he realizes the Science Minister had just asked him a question. From the minor frown lines between his brows, the Minister realized Kirk's lapse as well. Kirk forcibly pulls himself back to the present, focuses again on the Council and the important business they are conducting together.

"I apologize, Minister, can you repeat the question?" Kirk asks, shame spreading a flush of heat across his cheekbones and ears.

A shift in posture that in any other being would have been a harrumph of grave disappointment, "I had inquired as to whether or not the specific plans used on this structure were included in the information given to your relief?"

A hand reaches up and rubs the base of his neck as he stalls for time, and a better way to say this, "I actually have not had the chance to compile a list of the things to be left behind, or what they should bring with them."

He feels Spock stiffen even further behind him, as differing degrees of affronted pass through the eyes of the Council before him.

"But do they not leave in 3.89 days?" the Chairman is the first to respond.

Shifting of his feet beneath him

"Yes. But there's still time. I'd planned on putting it together tonight and sending their part through."

Skeptical brows shoot up around the gathering.

"I see." is all the Chairman says on the matter, and the Vulcans – in accord with one another – continue moving forward. They are back to being prickly, and all the progress he'd made has been dashed to pieces. He curses his inattentiveness, frustrated to no end as he falls into step behind them.

That is, until something inhumanly strong grasps hold of his arm, and drags him into one of the many alleyways. He readies himself for a quick strike to the solar plexus, spinning on his heel to move to safety.

And stops his strike a centimeter from connecting, as he is confronted with the irritated face of Spock. The Vulcan releases him, and crosses his arms over his chest. Looks down at him expectantly.

"What has emotionally compromised you?"

Oh no. Not the question he wants to have to answer, and so Kirk tries to redirect Spock's attention, "Emotionally compromised? Why would you think I'm emotionally compromised? I'm just too tired, I've been working awfully hard these last weeks and –"

"Do not lie to me, Captain." Spock interrupts, and Kirk is assaulted by a wave of despair as he realizes that redirection is not going to work, "Ever since we left camp this morning, you have been distracted. This is not the first evidence I have observed that signifies you are not behaving in a normal manner. There is an 85.2% chance that it is an emotional matter, and I must discern the reason so it can be corrected before irreparable harm is done."

He gulps, taking in a deep breath of air to delay the inevitable.

"You are aware that I am going to discern the reason, whether or not you give it freely. I would advise that you provide me the information I require."

Kirk glances up at Spock through his eyelashes, sees the determination in the Vulcan's eyes. That look definitely means the subject will not be dropped, and any point in hiding the information from the Vulcan will be rendered useless, anyway.

And so, his eyes fixed on the sandy ground beneath them; "It's Nyota, okay?"

The hard lines of Spock's face soften, as surprise fills his eyes. He definitely was not expecting that admission.

"And what about Nyota causes you emotional distress?" Spock lets out slowly, as the softness seeps away, quickly replaced by anger and suspicion.

Kirk holds up his hands defensively, forestalling that train of thought before it goes too far, "No no no! Not like that!" he stopped flirting with Uhura months ago, and certainly doesn't want Spock to get the wrong impression about his feelings for the Communications Officer, "Just as a friend, okay? She's always just a friend!"

Spock reverts to his normal stance, still patiently waiting.

"It's just that things have seemed strained between you two recently, and Nyota was pretty upset this morning. I was trying to get her to talk to me, so I can help, but…she didn't want to."

The Vulcan's brow clearly furrows in the late morning light. "What strain are you referring to? I did not detect any unpleasantness."

It's Kirk's turn to be confused. He can't really believe his friend is that obtuse, but; "You really can't be serious. You didn't notice that she's been radiating 'I'm angry about something' vibes at you for the last couple weeks?"

Worry joins the hints of confusion in Spock's expression, "No. I was not aware of this."

He lets out a big sigh, balling his hand into a fist instead of reaching out to shake his friend.

"Well, she has been. And this morning it looked like she wanted to say something to you but…didn't. I don't know if it's because you two weren't alone, or some other reason, but…." His voice trails off as he runs out of words.

Spock stands still, his mind obviously racing as he processes this new information. He is silent and so Kirk continues, "I was distracted because I was worried about her, and trying to figure out a way to get her alone so I could force her to talk to me. But, now that you know there's something wrong, it'd be best for you to talk to her."

He pauses, looking into Spock's eyes to impart his seriousness, "This is important. And she'd appreciate it if you were the first to bring up the subject."

Things weren't going to fix themselves, it was clear now, and a little push in the right direction wasn't going to do any harm. He wasn't very experienced in this kind of thing; his forte is usually damaging relationships instead of fixing them, but it stands to reason that the opposite of his typical behavior would be correct.

The half-Vulcan appears to come back to himself, then nods his agreement. He turns in the direction down which the Council disappeared; "Thank you, Captain. I will speak to her as soon as I receive an opportunity. But at this juncture I believe it would be pertinent to reunite with the rest of our party and continue the tour."

Kirk takes a long look at his friend, judging. Some of his worry has eased, as something is being done about the problem, but he has simply passed the burden along.

"Sure, Spock. Whenever you're ready."

He looks like he wants to protest – Spock certainly wouldn't admit to needing time to emotionally prepare – but then thinks better of it. Kirk watches as his friend's eyes close, and he breaths deeply for a minute. Sees the transformation take place before his eyes, as the little signs of emotion he's gotten so used to seeing are washed from Spock's expression. When every bit of feeling is cleared away, the dark eyes open again and look into his own. Kirk nods, once, and leads the way back to the tangle of Council members.

It appears that they did not get far, as they are waiting patiently for the two officers at a crossroads. When the two men approach, the Chairman turns to them with authority.

"We are aware that your body cannot tolerate the intense heat of the sun during the middle hours of the day. Because of this, we have made a concession. We will finish the tour at this time, and continue the dissection of the building progress." He looks directly at Kirk now, who squirms under his gaze, "But once the temperature is at a satisfactory degree, we will convene again in the council chambers. At that time, we will go over what the Vulcan people request from Starfleet resupply, and what we wish you to leave behind at your departure."

Not a question, not even really a request. Kirk bristles beneath the gaze, no longer squirming. That is, until a fingertip brushes his elbow in warning. The resentment disappears in a breath, washed away in residual heat.

He nods, once, keeping his head up and pride in his bearing, "That is acceptable. I will have some things I need to reschedule, but your people's requests are a priority."

The Chairman nods as well, his stiffness easing minutely. His demeanor causes Kirk to pause, as he realizes something. The Vulcan High Council was expecting him to protest, perhaps even make a scene. He prickles slightly at their low opinion of Humanity, of _him_ , but lets it go. The tingle radiating up his arm makes it strangely hard to focus on anything else.

"Then it is agreed. The meeting will take place at 1500 hours."

* * *

 **A/N:** Not so much a happy chapter. But the THINGS and the HAPPENING are beginning. And yes, I realize that this is chapter nine and things are just starting to begin. I told ya this was slow building!


	10. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : OMG. You people are all BEAUTIFUL, you hear me! Way to make a girl feel appreciated! *FLAILS FURIOUSLY* I has the best readers EVER and I love each and every one of you BUNCHES! *GOES OFF TO WRITE WRITE WRITE*

**A/N** : OMG. You people are all BEAUTIFUL, you hear me! Way to make a girl feel appreciated! *FLAILS FURIOUSLY* I has the best readers EVER and I love each and every one of you BUNCHES! *GOES OFF TO WRITE WRITE WRITE*

And, because amsuewithaview brought up a good point, and I thought I'd fill everyone in on my explanation (because it's not likely that Kirk will ever come across these details in the course of things):

I actually made a conscious decision not to include Spock Prime in my story. I was debating whether he should show up to say hello before they leave the planet, but decided against it. Here's my reasoning ^_^ . While I too adore Spock Prime, I have noticed that he can easily become a crutch for the characters. He tells Kirk how to interact with nu!Spock, he smooths things over with the crew, and while he is always doing *GOOD* things, he doesn't really let them learn about each other naturally. I always had the impression from the movie that he didn't want to interfere with nu!trek lives more than he had to - and so, in my story, he doesn't interact with them. He helped put an end to the crisis his own actions had caused, gave nu!Spock a little nudge in the right direction, and decided he wasn't going to contact them anymore. I'm not saying that he doesn't look in from afar, but he doesn't want to be a meddling old man ^_^.

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Ten

* * *

**

Anticipation, mixed with anxiety, is not conducive to making time pass quickly. The rest of the morning seems to drag on forever, but eventually the inspection is completed. Parting ways with the Council, the two Starfleet personnel proceed back to camp in silence. Spock is deep in thought, and Kirk is trying very hard not to pry. He desperately wants to know how Spock is going to patch things up with Uhura, but knows the Vulcan needs time to think.

Silence and patience aren't two of his strong areas. He tries to let the tension ease out of him, but only partially succeeds by the time they make it back to the firepit. Kirk is ecstatic to see that Uhura made it back before them, hoping that Spock and she can slip away to speak immediately. But then he sees that she is not alone in the seating area, and that Chekov and Sulu are also eating animatedly. Kirk's face falls, and he shoots Spock an apologetic smile. Spock shifts his shoulders minutely – his version of a shrug – and breaks away from his side, seating himself next to Uhura with a quiet murmur. She offers the Vulcan a shaky smile, and passes him a bowl of food.

Kirk tries to distract himself by joining the two young officers in their conversation, but unlike usual it doesn't help him ignore the stress. He answers their questions and makes quips of his own easily enough, but finds himself sneaking peeks at the quiet couple on the other side of the fire. It seems as if a pocket of silence has engulfed the two, as they both awkwardly focus on their food.

It is painful to watch, but somehow he can't leave well enough alone and turn away. He's done his part; all that's left now is Spock's actions. But, like any other problem, once he's latched on he can't let go until he's solved it. Kirk tries to ignore the two, but can't; and because he is watching so closely, he sees what the other Humans do not.

Watching out of the corner of his eye, he sees Uhura stand up to retreat to her tent. Spock's fingertips appear on her sleeve, calling her back for just a moment. The shutters of her expression tighten, and she leans down to listen. A whispered dialog ensues, and even though Kirk strains his ears he's not able to catch a word of what's said. All he's able to tell is that Spock's tone is urgent and pleading – something Kirk's never heard from the Vulcan before. She answers halting in one or two sentences, and then retreats to the safety of her tent.

Kirk shoots Spock a look, trying to guess what was said, but the Vulcan is paying close attention to the food before him once again. He desperately wants to ask what Spock's plan is, but can't do anything so obvious or the other two will know something is up. He pushes his anxiety to the side, trying to tell himself that he'll know soon enough.

It's amazing how quickly the climate changes, but it's only a couple more minutes more and the heat is nearly breaking him. Gasping for breath, the three Humans say goodbye to Spock and run for their tents. Once he reaches his, Kirk takes a moment to wheeze air back into his lungs, as the puppy waits patiently to be acknowledged. Archie's tail thump-thump-thumps against his boots, joy evident in his face as he looks up at his master.

Once he catches his breath, Kirk strips himself of tunic, undershirt, pants and boots. Finally free – in nothing but his boxer-briefs – he flops out along the length of his cot. It's been such a long morning, and he just wants to relax while he has the chance. He hopes he'll be able to take a nap for several hours, as it'll help pass the time before the meeting this afternoon. And it's not as if he's been getting enough sleep to begin with.

Archie takes his silence as tactic approval, and hops up onto the bed side him. Slinks forward until his body is pressed against Kirk's side, nuzzling into the flesh in the crook of Kirk's arm. So soft, and warm, and alive. With the other arm, Kirk happily reaches down and pets ears, head, back. Archie's puppy fur is being replaced by the courser fur of adulthood, but his coat is still smooth and relaxing underneath Kirk's palms.

As the air cools the sweat off of him, he relaxes even further, and his jaw stretches wide in a yawn.

"Well, boy, it looks like we're gonna get the chance to nap after all, eh?"

He shifts until he's in a more comfortable dent in the cot, the puppy repositioning himself automatically.

While rubbing the puppy's ears, he falls easily asleep.

(*)

Several hours later, he's awakened by a general sense of urgency instead of an alarm going off. He emerges into the baking sun, which is now attempting to slow roast him instead of to incinerate his lungs. The fire has been banked so that it doesn't waste fuel but keeps the coals for use later that night. There are two slim figures seated near it; Sulu, and a slender Vulcan with ears that are too large for his head. Instead of the robes or complexly woven clothing that is typical for the Vulcans, this young man is wearing a tight-fitting shirt and leggings. His irregular appearance confuses Kirk for a moment, and then he remembers that Bones said that Sulu's pilot friend was a bit...eccentric.

He grins and gives them both a little mock salute, then threads his way through the lawn furniture to Spock's tent. He stops, confused, when he sees that the zipper on Spock's tent is all the way closed. Over the past month the Bridge crew has come up with several standard procedures for tent survival. One of the most important of these is respecting each other's privacy; therefore, if someone leaves the zipper partially undone on their tent, they don't require being alone.

Spock's tent being completely closed can only mean one thing. The Vulcan is not present. Normally, Spock would wait for him, especially if they were going to the same place. The only reason that Kirk would be left behind is if….he had slept too long. Spock would be far too polite to invade his privacy to wake him up, and he'd forgotten to set his alarm before he'd passed out on the cot. With a rush of fear, he realizes that he can't quite remember if the Council wanted to meet at two, or three, in the afternoon.

He can feel the blood rushing sluggishly through his veins as he whips around to face Sulu, "Hikaru. When did Spock leave?"

Sulu and the Vulcan share a look of confusion as their conversation trails off. Turning to his captain, he responds quizzically, "He's been gone for a while now. Why?"

His blood seems to slow down, terror freezing the liquid in his veins. Hope disappears, as his own stupidity gets the better of him.

"It doesn't matter right now, I gotta go. I'll tell you later." He shouts over his shoulder, ducking down one of the side paths between tents. He slips into his easy ground-devouring stride, automatically plotting his course in his head. He needs to get to the inner city as quickly as possible. That means avoiding people who may stop him, and traffic that will clog the paths. With ease he determines the easiest back ways to use, the entire process taking mere moments.

As he runs through the empty sections of the tent-city his eyes constantly scan the terrain before him. Thankfully, the ground here has been packed down by many feet, and he can run quickly with no danger of tripping. He passes very few people, but those he does pass seem to notice that he's in a hurry. When they acknowledge his presence, it's with nothing more than a raised hand in greeting. Those that do get a nod in response as he flows past them, his attention spent on making sure his breathing stays nice and even.

When he leaves the often-tread paths of the tent-city to enter the city proper, the packed down ground changes to softer, uneven earth. This area, by virtue of not being inhabited as long, has not had time to be properly flattened by the steps of many feet. The uneven ground has many pitfalls waiting to snare unsuspecting travelers, and now Kirk has to be careful where he places his feet.

Kirk slows his steps to a cautionary jog so he can easily spot the dangers waiting to hurt him, and keeps his eyes constantly scanning the ground. The rest of his considerable mind is going over the exchange with the Chairman of the Council, desperately trying to remember what time the meeting was supposed to be. He had still been in a daze, distracted by the conversation with Spock just moments before. Kirk can remember the insult the Chairman flung at him in that convoluted Vulcan way, the anger that had flared inside him at the disrespect. Then his memory calls up the touch of Spock's fingertips on his elbow, calming him, and his arm tingles again at the thought. And then…the rest is a blur.

His steps pound an angry staccato beat against the dirt as he slips from alley to alley, the frustration building inside him. Such a simple thing, and he can't even remember to pay attention to what is being said. Right now, if he was Starfleet, he wouldn't give himself permanent command of the _Enterprise_. Pathetic, stupid, incapable numbskull like himself…and it's just their first mission. If things continue like this there's no telling what the rest of the year will hold.

Having been intimately involved with every aspect of building this city, Kirk knows which pathways are the best for speed and emptiness. He is passing a little alleyway that leads to a cul-de-sac behind several dwellings when he hears the distinctive sound of Spock's voice and it cuts through his diatribe.

Freezing, instantly, as the sound reaches him and he is flooded with relief. If Spock is here, and not in the Council chambers, then Kirk can't be late. He slips down the little alleyway, relaxing almost instantly as the anxiety seeps from his bones. All that's left is to meet up with the Vulcan, and they can go to the meeting together.

Picking up his pace, he trots down the short pathway towards his friend. The Vulcan's voice is too low for him to pick out the words, but just the tone is enough to soothe the rest of his distress away. He didn't mess up royally, no one but he will know how close he came –

He stops, suddenly, when another voice joins Spock's on the wind. Female, braided with equal parts anger and resignation. She sounds familiar, and yet he can't quite match a face to the voice. This other voice echoes solemn, and sad, and he doesn't want to interrupt Spock if the two of them are having a serious conversation.

Torn between his better judgment and his curiosity, he stands indecisive. Then the other voice rises in what sounds like frustration, and he can make out the distinct tones of Nyota Uhura. And his curiosity wins out. He desperately, pathetically, wants to know what happens between these two. He's had to wait all morning, and can't stand waiting any longer. Slipping forward slowly, so as not to bring attention to himself, he pauses at the entryway to the cul-de-sac. Leans against the wall, and peeks into the little hollow.

There is a tiny desert garden in the hollow, the pretty flowering plants making an aesthetically pleasing arrangement. Several benches are strategically placed in the best vantage points, and Uhura is seated on one of them. The bench she has chosen is underneath one of the few trees that the desert landscape can support, its tiny leaves casting an appealing pattern of shadows across her form. Kirk's view of her is partially blocked by Spock's figure, as the Vulcan stands ramrod-straight with his back to the silent observer.

Because he can't see his face, Kirk can't tell exactly what the Vulcan is thinking. But there is enough tension and hard-muscle outlines in those shoulders to hint at the turmoil inside.

"What did you bring me all the way out here for, anyway, Spock? We both have places we need to go, and now you're just wasting time." Her tone is so weary, and Kirk can tell she's close to breaking.

A muscle in the shoulder facing him twitches, once, as Spock registers the weariness in her voice. And he tries one more time.

"I was informed that you were experiencing some sort of emotional difficulties, and was attempting to ascertain whether the cause involved our relationship."

What he can see of Uhura's face trembles, the pride she gathers around herself slipping just a little bit, "You were told…?" then her eyes narrow, and her voice becomes soft to hide the anger beneath velvet, "You weren't able to determine that yourself?"

The back becomes stiff, and Kirk knows Spock can read the anger, even if he can't interpret its reasons.

"That is correct. I required assistance in determining your emotional undertones."

Uhura seems to crumple in on herself, the anger disappearing in a heartbeat as she sighs long and deep, "All this time, Spock, and you were told something was wrong. You couldn't come to that conclusion yourself…I was trying to keep it inside, but it must have been pretty obvious. I mean, even Kirk was able to tell I wasn't acting like myself."

"If you would please inform me what I have been doing incorrectly, so I can change the behavior to make you content once again –" He can see Spock's hands as they are clasped in the hollow of his back, the tendons showing as he squeezes tightly, but there is still no emotion stringing through his words.

She shakes her head to stall the flow of his speech, softly but with conviction, "I must not mean very much to you, if I can be upset for weeks and you still not even see. Don't you care enough to try, even a little bit, to understand how I'm feeling?"

"I care, Nyota." The words are formal, stilted but with emotion hidden within.

Her eyes rise to look deeply into his, and she seems to consider for a moment before speaking again, "But do you love me?"

The hands hidden behind his back open wide, and then tighten into fists again. "You are aware that I am incapable of lying. You were also made aware of the circumstances before this relationship began. My preferences lie with men. I had informed you that based upon the stigmas Earth still harbors, our relationship was the logical choice from my standpoint. I have grown to care for you a great deal, and yet I cannot give you that."

She hangs her head to hide her pain, giving herself a moment by tucking a stray strand of hair behind an ear. Her customary ponytail is limp and bedraggled, and sweaty locks have come loose to frame her face. For his part, Kirk is incapable of thinking. His brain seems unable to wrap around this unexpected revelation, it causes a spark of – something – in his chest before he pushes it aside to focus on the tableau before him.

"I can't do this anymore, Spock. I'm sorry." she whispers, as if she doesn't want to say the words aloud.

"I must apologize, but I cannot comprehend. It seemed as if our relationship was going better than expected and I…."

"I thought I could take it, and for the longest time I could. I thought it was normal for your people to be that distant, and that the way you cared for me was enough. But now I've been around them, Spock, and I've seen. They are capable of emotion, no matter how you try to convince me. I've seen the way that girl looks at Kirk, and…" her voice trails off, choking and hollow and bare, "…When one Vulcan will offer comfort to another, even if it's a simple touch or a look that no one else is meant to see. I've seen them."

"I am sorry, Nyota. I have never been like the others, never allowed to forget that I am different. I was forced to suppress my Human half and the emotional responses that were ridiculed. In order to gain their respect and the place I wanted among them, I had to essentially become more logical than they can attain." Here Spock pauses, and the muscles of his back whisper a story that he cannot tell Uhura, "And even though I care for you, as a sister and a friend, I cannot change who I am."

She shudders at his words, and her eyes widen as recognition hits. Her hands stretch forward, as if of their own volition, but Spock is out of her reach. They collapse onto her lap, picking at the seam of her dress. Lost and desperate, without an anchor.

"I see. I should not have expected anything more, and yet I'd still hoped…." she dashes a tear from her cheek, then gathers herself and stands, "Then there's nothing more to be said. I need more than just sister or friend, Spock. I deserve someone that can love me as much as…I love you."

"I deeply apologize, Nyota. I never intended our relationship to bring you pain. If I had realized this would be the outcome, I never would have agreed to the liaison." There is actual sadness in Spock's voice, but so faint Kirk can hardly hear. The Vulcan's head bows under the weight of what has been said.

The words are more than she can bear, and Uhura flees from Spock's sight. She runs past Kirk with tears streaming from her eyes, not even seeing him beside her. And then she is gone.

Kirk is bruised and battered, for both of them, and the pain that is evident in each of his friends. He stands, frozen, staring at the place where Uhura disappeared. This is certainly not the outcome he anticipated when he spoke to Spock this morning.

When he turns back towards Spock, he finds the Vulcan staring at him. Emotions are clearly marked on the Vulcan's face; sadness and confusion. Spock is vulnerable in a way that Kirk never imagined he'd find his friend. Kirk is left gasping, drowning like a fish out of water when faced with the strength of those emotions.

Only the sound of Spock's voice can break the spell; "How much did you witness?"

No indignation, no customary raise of an eyebrow. Simplicity laid bare, as for the moment Spock is not balancing on propriety, too caught up in the feelings coursing through him. For a moment, Kirk contemplates lying to Spock, to spare him the reality of how much he has seen. But the urge is gone even before he can fully identify it.

Instead, he replies simply with; "Enough."

Spock's eyes close, and the Vulcan's voice comes out broken and bloody, as wretched as the expression on his face.

"I never wanted to hurt her."

He resists the urge, with all his being, to comfort his friend. Spock is already being far more open than Kirk knows he wants to be, and he's not going to make it worse by presuming to touch him. But it's so hard to avoid even the squeezing of an elbow. He's so used to giving comfort with touch, and for it not to be allowed tests his already limited restraint.

Gulping back the urge, he mentally takes a step away from his friend, "She knows, Spock. And trust me, even though it doesn't seem like it – that means a great deal to her."

A twitch just underneath the surface, shuddering across Spock's form. The dark dark eyes open, and bore into Kirk's with such a desperate plea… and it cracks his self control. Stepping forward, he holds out a hand as he says the first words that enter his mind.

"Spock, I'm sorry." the words sound lame, even in his own ears, and Kirk cringes inside as he curses his instincts. These are exactly the wrong things to do for a being that hates nearness and hates speaking of his emotions.

Literally pulling away from the proffered comfort, Spock takes a step back from his friend. There is no emotion left in his words as he replies, "There is nothing else that could have been done."

The formal blankness is back in his tone, and Kirk gives an involuntary shudder. A few heartbeats more, and Spock is back to his formal self, all angles and foreign blank expression. Even the small hints of emotion that Kirk is used to seeing around the Vulcan's eyes and mouth have disappeared.

Kirk wants to growl in frustration, and drag those feelings back out of Spock. But he knows his chance is gone, that he was the reason it was dashed to pieces. Spock has effectively closed off any lines of that conversation, and there is nothing more he can do. With no choice, he changes the subject with a sigh; a coarse expulsion of air that he uses to expel some of his own emotions.

"Fine, I'll drop it for now. But I know what happened and you know what happened and I _will_ eventually bring it back up again." He crosses his arms over his chest, frustration and worry battling within him. Worry wins out, but there is no available outlet at the moment.

Spock relaxes minutely in front of him, a wave of surprise rolling across his face before it disappears beneath the surface once again. It's almost as if he expected Kirk to fight longer. Kirk is firm in his conviction to get Spock to talk about this, but he also is aware that it's impossible at the moment – and that they are on time constraints.

He runs his fingers through his hair, tangling them in the knots and tugging. There are a million and one questions that he desperately wants to ask, screaming to get out. But instead he simply says, "How much time do we have before the meeting, Spock?"

The Vulcan tilts his head to the side, considering for just a moment before he replies, "We have exactly 5.2 minutes before our presence is required at the specified location."

With a nod, he resigns himself to the inevitable. Heart heavy with sadness, he makes the conscious switch from comforting friend to commanding officer.

"Are you ready, Commander?"

The dark dark eyes before him close once again, this time extinguishing emotion instead of just suppressing it. In moments Spock is back to extremely formal Vulcan, his change as dramatic as that of Kirk.

He nods in reply, "Indeed, Captain. I am sufficiently prepared to speak with the Council at this time."

One last glance at his Vulcan First Officer, full of everything he wishes he could say. And then he turns without a word, and leads the way from the cul-de-sac to the waiting Council.


	11. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: SO MANY THANKS TO MY NEW BETA, Lady Merlin!

A/N: SO MANY THANKS TO MY NEW BETA, Lady Merlin!

* * *

Chapter Eleven

* * *

Surprisingly enough, the meeting actually goes well. The Vulcan High Council members, while not friendly, are certainly not as standoffish as they can be. Slowly, Kirk is able to focus on the task at hand and let the previous events fall to the background of his conscious. He can't do anything about it right now, and can't spare any attention to dwell.

So instead he focuses on what his ship can do for the Vulcan colonists. Digging through the lists of their supplies, he coordinates with the Council members to fill their most urgent needs. Thankfully, he only has to consider what he can do without until the next supply station, where the _Enterprise_ can easily restock what is deemed necessary. The Vulcans' most pressing concern is sustenance, as none of their crops are grown enough to be harvested. Their vegetarianism makes the situation even more complicated. The local desert inhabitants are safe from being eaten, but it makes the problem of feeding ten thousand mouths more complex. Adding to that is the fact that _Enterprise_ cannot possibly carry enough supplies to keep that many people alive for any significant period of time. After brainstorming on the situation for several hours, Kirk ends up being forced to determine how many replicators his crew can live without in the interim.

What he can't provide for them, they add to another list. This one is the supplies that need to be ferried on the _Nebakanezer,_ the ship that is relieving the _Enterprise_ and taking over the dual responsibilities of protecting the Vulcans and finishing the construction. So many things that the Vulcans could not bring on their first run, that they still desperately need to continue colonizing the planet.

Finally, a lull appears in the conversation. Participants cease chiming in with new ideas, as they all sit back contemplatively and consider the lists one last time. Kirk runs his fingers through his hair yet again, blinking to re-focus his eyes. They were relying mostly on the sunlight streaming through the open windows and doors, but now it is past dusk and the lamplight flickers far too frequently to be comfortable. He's sore, and exhausted, and really just wants the day to end.

He is not the only one. Spock, already distant when the meeting began, has not said a word in at least half an hour. The other Vulcans do not notice his lack of attention; he is, after all, typically quiet around them. But this is abnormally so, no comments here and there like Kirk is used to receiving from his First. Whenever Spock speaks up, it is vitally useful information, and Kirk finds himself floundering without those insights.

The Chairman takes a moment to look at each Council Member in the circle, gaining their confirmation. And then he clears his throat.

"Captain Kirk, it would appear as though this listing of our needs is complete. We can find nothing further to add, and will consider your task accomplished to its fullest."

As one, the Council rises from their chairs, giving him a nearly simultaneous nod in thanks. He blinks in his surprise – too tired to do more – as they file out one by one. The Chairman remains behind, for a moment, to say one more thing.

"Thank you, Captain, for agreeing to meet with us. It has assuaged the concerns that were voiced by some of us as to your competency."

This time, Kirk's eyebrows rise in surprise, and he can feel his jaw go slack. He's never, ever, heard of a Vulcan apologize for their opinions – and certainly not the Chairman of their ruling body.

Spock shoots him a look behind the Chairman's back, and Kirk quickly recovers his equilibrium and picks his jaw up off the floor, "Certainly, Chairman. It was the right thing to do, and I'm glad we could finish our task. If you need anything more from me before the ceremony, please don't hesitate to let me know."

The Chairman nods in understanding, "We will not." He turns to include Spock once again, "Good evening, gentlemen."

Then he is gone, leaving the two of them alone in the candlelight. Kirk rubs the base of his neck as an awkward silence settles uncomfortably over them. He glances over at Spock, who raises an eyebrow at him.

"Is there anything else that requires my assistance, Captain?"

A sigh, as Kirk looks down at the lists held in his hands. He still has to deliver instructions to the crew left aboard the _Enterprise_ , and do the nightly rounds before he can return to the fire. Normally, Spock would join him on his trip…but Kirk suspects he won't be in the mood for socializing tonight. He is momentarily hit with a wave of melancholy, because he is comforted by Spock's presence – even in his silence – and doesn't want him to leave just yet.

"Well, I need to deliver these PADDs to beta shift on the Bridge, but other than that, I think I'm done for the evening." He turns his attention from the PADDs to Spock's face, completely expecting him to decline.

His friend takes a moment to consider, then surprises him with; "I have not been aboard the _Enterprise_ in 7.85 days. I believe I will accompany you, if that is acceptable?"

Because he is paying attention, he sees the hint of – sadness – slip across Spock's face. There is also a definite feeling of anxiety emanating from his friend, as well. It causes a spike of worry to course through Kirk, overlaid with a sense of relief. He's not the only one who doesn't want to be alone; and if Spock doesn't want him to, Kirk certainly isn't going to leave his side.

"Of course, Spock. I'm always glad to have you with me." He tries to give his biggest smile, and tucks the PADDs away for safe keeping.

Spock takes a step forward, moving precisely into the range required for transporting two forms simultaneously. Kirk can almost feel the heat wafting off his warmer body, as the Vulcan taps his communicator to open a channel to the ship.

"Spock to bridge."

Silence for several breaths, and then the communicator crackles to life.

"Yes, Commander Spock?"

He frowns a little at the delay, but responds promptly, "Two to beam up."

They are both wrapped in a halo of light, before the tingle that signals transport envelopes them.

When they rematerialize, Kirk gasps in a breath, disoriented by the sudden change in surroundings. The stark interior of the ship is drastically different than what he has become familiarized with the last month, but as always he is relieved to be back. The difference between the baking heat of the planet and the comfortable climate-controlled coolness add to his body's confusion.

It doesn't seem that Spock is experiencing the same disorientation, as the Vulcan immediately steps off the platform and moves towards the door. Kirk experiences a sudden pang of regret at the loss of Spock's heat – that for a moment was so close. The unexpected reaction further disorients him, enough so that Spock notices his hesitation.

"Coming, Captain?" the Vulcan murmurs, pausing to wait. Kirk tells the funny little feeling to go away, before it confuses him further. With a nod to the tech manning the transporter station, he joins Spock and they stride from the room.

As expected, they don't pass anyone on the way. The minimal personnel left on the ship would not be wandering the hallways. Kirk assumes they are either seeing to their duties, or in the rec room enjoying some off time together.

They had arrived in one of the transporter rooms close to the Bridge, and it takes them no time at all to arrive at their destination. As they exit the turbolift, the skeleton crew of beta shift acknowledges their arrival.

"Captain Kirk, Commander Spock," greets the officer in charge, as he steps away from the command chair.

"Lieutenant Matthews." Kirk responds, inspecting the crew for signs of anything out of place. It is just as important, if not more so, that the people left on the _Enterprise_ are not overly stressed, and are able to perform their tasks admirably. Thankfully, everyone is visibly relaxed and well-focused. Tension that he didn't know he carried eases out of his shoulders, "How is everything going up here?"

The Lieutenant shrugs his shoulders, eloquently expressing his opinion, "Everyone is performing their tasks excellently, Captain. Currently, there are no incidents to report and we only hope to make you proud of our abilities."

Kirk claps the officer on the shoulder, grinning to try to lighten Matthews' stiff mood. He can never stand it when his subordinates treat him so formally – it makes him feel old, and tired, and hidebound. "Great, great! You all are performing even better than I had hoped." A pause, as Kirk is glad he got that awkward bit out of the way; "Any news from Starfleet or the _Nebakanezer_?"

A shake of the head, as the man in front of him relaxes noticably, "No, sir. We expect contact any day now. Are the reports finished, sir, so we can transmit them?"

Kirk shoots a covert glance at Spock, but the Vulcan hasn't seemed to notice the mention of reports. The Vulcan is distracted, involved in a conversation with the officer currently manning the science station, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"I'll have those finished soon, Lieutenant. I actually had something else to discuss with you, which is why we're here." Hurriedly, he changes the subject before Spock learns of the reports.

He pulls the PADDs out and hands them over to his subordinate, explaining as he does so, "These are the lists of resources and equipment the Vulcans need. This top one is what we need to leave behind for them when we depart, and this one –" he points at the requisite PADD, "Needs to be transmitted to the _Nebakanezer_ so they can bring those supplies with them."

"Aye, sir. I can get that finished right now; the crew at the communications station in Earth Spacedock has been waiting for these." Matthews takes possession of the PADDs, and trots over to the communications officer. The PADD in question changes hands once again, as the Lieutenant details what's required. Once his orders are understood, the officer turns back to his station and begins the transmission.

Matthews returns with the PADD meant for the ship and her crew, scrolling through it as he walks, "As for this one, I'll drop it off at Engineering at the end of my shift. The night crew consists of one person, and she's usually occupied doing random things. Commander Scott is scheduled to beam up tomorrow for maintenance, and I'll make sure he gets hold of this."

He comes to stand in front of Kirk, who nods noncommittally. His duty has been completed, and he can try to relax now, "Sounds great. I'm hoping it'll give you an interesting last couple of days, at least."

The lieutenant returns the nod, his attention still on the PADD before him, "Understood, sir. We'll try to get as much of this ready as possible before the transition takes place. Is there anything else you needed from us, for now?"

Taking one last look around the Bridge, Kirk shakes his head, "Not that I can think of. If anything turns up, I'll be sure to communicate it to you. You're free to go back to your duties."

Matthews salutes, and returns to his position in the command chair. Kirk suppresses a twitch at someone else in _his_ seat, but resolutely silences the sharp remark on the tip of his tongue. After all, Matthews has to have access to the computer systems, and there are no other panels available. But that doesn't mean it doesn't rankle.

Steadfastly ignoring what he can't change, he instead wanders over to stand near Spock. The Vulcan is still deeply involved in his conversation with the Science Officer on duty, but acknowledges Kirk's presence with a slight signal of his fingers.

Kirk settles down to wait, giving Spock what patience he has. Thankfully, the Vulcan only takes a moment before he gives his attention to his commanding officer. Drawing Kirk with him, he steps away from where they can be easily overheard by the crew.

"I do not know if you had any other duties aboard the _Enterprise_ requiring your attention at this time." he says softly, his deep voice lowering even further so as not to carry. It thrums through Kirk, and he has to focus on the words being said, "But it has been brought to my attention that there is a minor difficulty being experienced by the technicians in one of the laboratories. The situation requires my support for several hours, so I unfortunately must abstain from our nightly excursions around the campgrounds."

Considering the new information, Kirk rubs the muscles at the back of his neck. There is not, currently, any stiffness or soreness there, but the habit helps him think. After the events of earlier today, the thought of rounds is too much for him to bear at the moment, too. He is done with the duties that brought him to the Bridge, but he has several other things he can busy himself with in the meantime. A flicker of inspiration, as he remembers something he saw quite some time ago. Perhaps he could persuade Spock to spend some more time with him after all.

"I didn't expect to be able to do the nightly rounds today, either." he checks the timepiece before continuing, "I have an idea, Spock. Do you think you'll be done helping the lab within, say, three hours?"

"Most assuredly, Captain."

"Then I propose that we meet in the rec room at 2200 hours for a friendly game of chess. You do like chess, don't you?" The statement that starts confidently trails into a tentative question, as Kirk hopes he hasn't overstepped the boundaries Spock has clearly defined for everyone. He's taking a big gamble, as Spock never seems to socialize with anyone but Uhura. But he's resting his chance on the intuition that Spock doesn't seem to want to be alone, and that Spock will actually know how to use the chessboard Kirk saw him carrying quite some time ago.

The Vulcan's head tilts quite dramatically – for him – to the side, and he blinks slowly before answering, "Indeed, it is a pastime that I engage in at regular intervals. I believe it would be agreeable if we were to meet at the designated time."

He has to resist the urge to scrunch his nose at the language used, but the words break through the sadness clinging to his insides. He can't help the genuine, blinding smile that suffuses his features, "Great, I'll meet you there!"

Regarding him for a moment more, Spock gets a thoughtful look in his eyes as he mentions, "Perhaps you could spend the interim diligently applying yourself to the reports requested by Starfleet regarding our time here?"

A rush of blood to his cheeks, and ears. So the Vulcan _had_ overheard the comment made by Matthews. Kirk is surprised when his grin doesn't diminish; "You have a point there. I think I will, while I have the free time."

The sorrow lurking in the back of Spock's eyes lessens, serving to brighten Kirk's grin further, as he replies; "Excellent, Captain. Then, until later."

Returning Spock's nod with a slight wave of his own, he watches the Vulcan disappear into the turbolift. He turns around, the grin still plastered on his face, to see the Science Officer giving him a curious look.

"Anything you need, Ensign?" he asks, wondering what has caught her attention.

"N-nothing, Captain." She responds hurriedly, scrambling back to the work at her station. A furrow appears between his brows as he considers her strange actions, then he shrugs them off. If it had been important, she would have said something.

Mentally checking off a list, he narrows it down until he finds the best place to work uninterrupted. He surprises himself with an actual _desire_ to do the reports that Starfleet is requiring of him. Kirk shakes his head, putting it down to too much running around and not enough resting. This last month really has worn him raw, and he can see how he could relish some not-moving for a bit.

Vaguely, he remembers that there is some sort of a desk set up in his personal quarters. He's only actually spent one night inside the captain's rooms, and he didn't have much time to look around. That had been the night he'd stayed up terribly late going over the air current charts with Chekov, and he'd had barely enough energy to get back _to_ his rooms before he had passed out on his bed. But he does remember stubbing his toe on the leg of a straight-backed chair – and cursing effusively – and if a chair exists there most certainly must be a table or a desk of some sort to go with it.

"Keep up the great work!" he calls to Matthews, as he enters the turbolift and the doors close behind him. Mesmerized again by the still-sparkling interior of his lady, he brushes his fingertips along the sides of the turbolift. Her hum greets his questing fingers, and he smiles. A soft whisper tells her what he needs, and the lift begins moving towards the requisite deck.

"Did you miss me, girl? I won't be gone much longer." Being here, in this ship, is where he was always meant to be.

He whistles softly to himself, a cheerful little tune he only remembers in snatches. Focused on the task ahead of him, he has no time to wonder what caused his sudden happiness.

(*)

When the alarm goes off, telling him it's time to go to the rec room, he's amazed that the hours have passed already. He stretches and blinks, as he focuses his tired eyes on something other than the PADD he's been staring at for several hours. An involuntary groan escapes his lips as his back pops in several places. Old injuries expressing distaste at being in such a cramped, uncomfortable position for so long.

Careful, he makes sure he saves all of his work properly before tucking the PADD away in a safe place. He needs to make sure that nothing happens to his progress, as he actually managed to get quite a lot accomplished. Smug happiness suffuses him momentarily as he considers all he's finished in such a short amount of time. Spock isn't the only one that can get things done; Kirk just needs a little more motivation when it comes to paperwork.

As he stands, he rolls his shoulder to clear it of the residual stiffness. He had found his desk – complete with terminal and a stack of waiting PADDs – tucked away in the corner of his quarters. This fact has brought him some confusion, as he is not quite sure how he'd managed to stub his toe on the way to his bed. The offending chair, and the desk it belongs to, is beautifully carved from actual wood. Kirk is amazed by the expense of one item that will never be seen or used by anyone but himself. The desk reminds him again that he is serving on the flagship of the entire Fleet, and that everything contained inside is the best Starfleet can offer.

He runs his hand over the fine grain of the chair back, smiling softly to himself. It is part of _her_ , and as such, should never be anything but the best. Then he turns his gaze to the rest of the quarters; the plump bedding, sleek furnishings and comparatively palatial bathing room. Undoubtedly, this is the best room he's ever had a chance to visit. And it's all his, and will be for five years if he gets his wish. Amazement fills him as he remembers, again, how far he's come from the little boy he was. And how much he's suffered; how hard he's worked for it these last three years.

But he has stalled long enough, and doesn't want Spock waiting for him. Or worse, thinking he changed his mind. A flutter-bump of nervous tension passes through his heart, and he can't locate the source. The feeling is foreign to him, and he pushes the strangeness to the side as he exits the rooms and makes his way down the hall – chessboard in hand.

Arriving – as planned – ahead of Spock, he claims one of the smaller tables in the back corner. There is a sprinkling of other crew already in the room, but they simply greet their captain and leave him in peace.

With sure fingers he sets up the board, positioning it in the exact center of the little table. He places the black figures on his side, and the white pieces on Spock's. It has been several years since he's played a game of chess, and he's a little rusty on the strategies. It'll be much easier to react to Spock's moves than to lead the initial attack.

The Vulcan arrives just as he finishes arranging the last piece. Spock seats himself with a nod of greeting, inspecting the board before him.

"Interesting. I had assumed you would have chosen white for yourself." He murmurs, eyes rising from the board to inspect Kirk just as intensely.

Kirk returns the gaze with his customary grin, hoping to bluff Spock away from the truth, "I figured I'd shake things up a bit. And I thought you could use an advantage."

The eyebrow is raised, as the sorrow retreats a bit from the dark eyes, "Fascinating. We shall see if your attitude is an appropriate response to your skill, or if it is more bravado than substance."

Bluff called. Kirk hides an inward groan, as he dredges up everything he can remember about chess. Back in the day he used to be an excellent player, but over the years the skills may have diminished. He'll just have to hope they haven't fallen too far, and can be resurrected quickly.

He doesn't let his grin falter as he returns Spock's assessing look. If he suspects, it's best to keep him guessing. An idea tickles the edge of his consciousness, and he pauses to consider for a moment.

"How about this, Spock; we'll put a wager on my skill." he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back to portray his confidence.

The eyebrow raises still further, real humor lurking in the depths of those dark eyes and eclipsing any grief, "And what is your proposition?"

Kirk reaches out and grasps one of the pawns before him, twisting it between his fingers as his plan leaps fully formed into his mind, "If I beat you, you have to play chess with me every day."

"And if I am the victor?"

"And if you beat me," Kirk responds, his grin crinkling around the edges, "You'll get the pleasure of teaching me that Vulcan martial arts style."

Genuine surprise slackens the lines around Spock's mouth and eyes, "S _uus mahna?_ What benefit would instructing you in _suus mahna_ serve to either you or myself?"

"I will get to learn an entirely awesome fighting style. And _you_ will get security in the knowledge that during my away missions I am properly prepared to defend myself in the most logical of fashions. You get peace of mind, and I get to stay alive!" Kirk has been dying to learn since he first discovered its existence aboard the Narada, and it seems like a perfectly good excuse to bring it up. He's disappointed that, unfortunately, the odds are it's a futile attempt. There's no way Spock will see that as a worthwhile wager for himself.

"But you are already proficient in several Earth combat styles." the Vulcan points out.

"I was good enough to be given the assistant instructor position for the advanced hand-to-hand combat lessons." Kirk adds, not bragging – too much. He scratches his head as he looks down at the chess board, admitting; "But I would like to learn your fighting technique. I don't know any other style that can take down five opponents that quickly, and in that efficient of a manner."

"That is logical. I accept your wager." Spock says.

"Well, if you don't like that wager, what would you want instead?" Kirk grumbles, not looking at Spock. And then the words register, and he jerks his head up to look Spock in the eyes, "W-what?"

"I stated that I consent to your terms. The competition is agreeable."

Shaking himself to clear the surprise, he lets out a grin. "Great! Are you ready for me to win?"

"We shall see who comes out the victor, Captain."

A companionable silence settles over them, as their attention is drawn to the game. Kirk watches Spock's moves, trying to get a feel again for how the game goes, and specifically how the Vulcan plays. As expected, Spock's play style is very concise and purposeful. Kirk tries to build counter-tactics, but he knows he's mixing together half-remembered bits of different strategies. What little plan he's able to construct is flimsy at best, but at least he seems to be giving Spock a bit of a challenge. Whether it's because of his previous skill in the game, or the randomness of his approach, he's not able to tell.

The silence sharpens as Kirk's competitive edge asserts itself, aggravation building as he is forced to abandon one of the tentative strategies he put in place and start an offensive. A spark of intuition, and he sees. If he moves his queen _here_ Spock would make the logical choice and capture her with his bishop, leaving _this_ open and…checkmate.

He glances up to observe Spock's reaction as he shifts his queen to her vulnerable location. A slight crease appears between the Vulcan's brows, marring the otherwise flawless skin. He returns his sight to the board quickly, quickly, before Spock can notice – willing the other not to see. Kirk's gambling with this strategy, but if it works the sacrifice will be worth it.

After a slight hesitation, Spock's tapered fingers pick up the bishop to capture Kirk's defenseless queen.

"Check." he murmurs in his quiet voice, a hint of confusion coloring the tone.

Without comment, Kirk shifts his knight to defend his king. So far things are going as he hopes, and Spock does not appear to see through his admittedly limited strategy.

Several tense moves later, and the unthinkable occurs.

"Checkmate!" Kirk crows, his grin back in full force. He raises his eyes from the chessboard, to stare into the dark eyes of his opponent. Surprisingly to Kirk, there is no anger in those eyes; only the hint of amusement that was there when the game began.

"Fascinating." Spock responds, as he rests his king on its side, signifying defeat, "It would appear that, as usual, your words are matched by your abilities. Though I would indicate that I have never seen those stratagems before…where did you say that you received your instruction in the game?"

Ignoring the question completely, Kirk is stunned as warmth spreads outward from his core, "Spock…did you just compliment me?"

The Vulcan's hands pause in their resetting of the board, then continue their progress, "It would appear so. Considering the circumstances, a compliment is the requisite response."

The grin that appears is the largest he's ever had, his delight clearly visible for the Vulcan to witness, "Thanks, Spock. That means a lot."

Spock blinks, and then resumes setting up the chessboard for a rematch.

"You are welcome."

In mutual, unspoken agreement they begin another game.

 ****

* * *

 **A/N:** Cause it had to happen eventually. You know, the chess game XD

And on a different note, only one more chapter left in Part One. Are you excited? I know I am!


	12. The Flavor of Laughter Part One, Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : SO. Here it is, a week early, the last chapter of Part One in all it's glorious detail. LOVE IT, like I do. I've been wanting to share this piece with you for three months now.

**A/N** : SO. Here it is, a week early, the last chapter of Part One in all it's glorious detail. LOVE IT, like I do. I've been wanting to share this piece with you for three months now.

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve

* * *

**

They are all waiting with bated breath. The crowd mills anxiously around the finish line, spreading down to cover the last kilometer of the route. Anxiety rolls down the columns in waves, as overanxious spectators mistakenly sound the alarm. The finalists have not quite rounded the final bend.

The Vulcan High Council and the Bridge crew of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ are given front row privileges, with a perfect view of the finish line. The excitement in the air is palpable, and surprisingly enough there is even a hint of the emotion emanating from the Vulcans. Everyone is universally enjoying themselves and the event that has been staged in the ship's honor.

Kirk has been grinning all morning, as he traverses the route with Chekov in tow. The young Russian actually woke up at the crack of dawn, and has been furiously working on last minute details. He'd been busy up until the moment the race started, and he is still making sure everything continues to run smoothly. He'd been bummed about not being able to run in the marathon, but Chekov was resilient. The responsibilities he had been given as replacement had gone a long way towards making him feel like an integral piece of the marathon, and cheered him considerably.

Now they are mingling with the rest of the Bridge Officers, shifting animatedly as they try to get a competition going. Good-natured taunts are being passed around, as everyone attempts to start a wager on the winner. The only one not joining in the general cheer is Uhura, who is present but isolating herself. Kirk offers her a half-smile of understanding, but his attention is immediately drawn elsewhere.

"I bet a month's worth of shore leave credits, zhat Surel will win." Chekov chirps in, surprising everyone by being the first to cave.

Everyone stops speaking, stunned by the height the stakes have climbed to in one decisive gamble.

Scotty looks at the shorter Russian with a skeptical eye; "On the lass? Ah dinnae think that's wise, she's a wee slip of a thing."

"I know zhat, but it is my bet, yes?" Chekov stands up straighter, defending himself and his decision. His temporary competition eyes him one more time, before breaking out in a grin.

"Aye, laddie. But that cannae stop me from betting against ye!"

And suddenly, there's another stake on the table. The winner will receive an adjustment to the replicators to include their favorite food. Scotty's counter is all that is needed, and the snowball effect begins. Soon everyone is in on the outcome, and even Uhura has been coerced into joining; offering up her translation services for a week's time.

Kirk, laughing, stays out of the betting pool. If he were going to lay odds, it would be in Surel's favor – he knows how hard she's been practicing in the last couple of weeks. But right now the only one betting on her is Chekov, and Kirk wants the sincere young genius to get all the glory when he wins. All bets in, the wages recorded, Kirk and the rest rejoin the crowd watching the route.

A ripple begins at the outermost edge of the multitude, curling outward until everyone knows that the first runners have finally, really, been spotted. An expectant hush follows the news, and Kirk finds his heart in his throat as he squints.

Crosses his fingers behind his back, and hopes. When he had seen her this morning, Surel had been more excited and alive than he'd ever witnessed her. She'd been talking animatedly about the race, and the people she'd helped organize it with. Such a drastic change, in such a short amount of time.

A moment later, and tiny specks are visible running towards them. Kirk stands up on his tiptoes, trying to get a better view. So close, so close, but he can't see a thing.

Chekov, at his elbow, tugs on his sleeve. The shorter man looks up at him pleadingly, "Who is it! Who is in zhe lead!"

"It appears, Ensign, that your instincts were accurate." Spock, on Kirk's other side, informs both of them – pride coloring his voice.

Kirk jerks in astonishment, turning from the people running towards them to the Vulcan at his side. The Vulcan who was not there a moment before. Due to the mass of spectators all around them, Spock is not able to observe his normal rules of personal space – and he is so close.

The breath catches in Kirk's throat as he stares at Spock's profile. The Vulcan is not even a foot away, attention focused on the approaching runners. So close, Kirk can feel the heat radiating off the slim body, noticeable even in the ambient temperature of the planet. He basks in the warmth, all thoughts forgotten for the moment as his eyes close.

"Really?" Chekov cries, jarring Kirk out of his lull. He comes back to himself, blinking.

Then he is caught up in the momentum, and has no time to think about the stutter as the runners are _there_ and flowing to them and past them. The ribbon is torn as the runner in the lead passes through, and a cheer bursts from the throats of all the Humans. Some of the younger Vulcans look like they want to join in the vocal display **–** but hold themselves back. Their older counterparts clap politely – and there is joy in everyone's eyes.

The Humans in the crowd surge forward, surrounding Surel as she comes to a panting halt. A momentary burst of fear engulfs Kirk, as he pictures her being trampled – but then she is lifted, supported on strong shoulders above the crowd. He grins at the tiny hints of surprise on her face, joining the cheering crowd with a happy heart.

He watches as she settles into her balance in their grip, and begins waving cautiously at those surrounding her. To his experienced eyes, she is positively glowing in her happiness, no trace of shyness on her face.

Movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns to find Chekov bouncing up and down in his delight. Spock is watching with a sardonic eyebrow, good humor leaking out of him. Chekov just looks so wonderfully _happy_ that Kirk can't resist, and pulls the young Russian to him for a fierce hug and ruffling of the hair.

"She did it! She did it!" Chekov cheers, returning the hug with no reservations.

He laughs in reply, making sure to include Spock in his smile.

(*)

The marathon had been intentionally held in the morning, while the planet had still been cool enough from the night. The planning committee had intentionally wanted it as easy on the Human participants as possible, and the Vulcans had readily agreed. Even with the arrangement, it is still baking when the congratulations finally come to an end. Everyone is rushing to get some food and get to their tents before the air can become agonizing. Separating into their campsite groups, the crowd disperses into the tent city.

When he's forced inside by the heat, Kirk is too keyed up to sleep. With a sigh, he sinks down onto his cot with the puppy flopping down beside him.

"Hey handsome boy, you have a good morning?" he automatically begins massaging the proffered ears, but his attention is not on the warm form beneath his fingers. Instead, his eyes are searching the scant interior of his tent, searching for something to occupy his time. He's always happy training Archie, and paying attention to him, but there are at least three hours of being trapped in his tent that he has to occupy. And he can readily admit that neither he nor the dog have that long of an attention span. What he did not plan for is spending much time in his tent; he never expected to need to. Because of this, he didn't bring any books or anything else interesting to do during down time.

His eyes alight on the chess board he brought down from the ship, set up in the corner. His plan had been to practice a bit by himself, but it'd be so much more fun to get in a game with Spock…. Kirk turns in the direction of Spock's tent, considering. His focus turns inward as he contemplates. The odds of Spock having company during the rest-time are negligible. While he is beginning to socialize with the rest of the crew, and the Bridge Officers will happily talk to him during a shift…the only ones that ever spend down time with the Vulcan are Uhura and himself. And Kirk can't imagine Uhura wanting to be alone with Spock right now.

As he breathes deeply, he's reminded by the suffocating in his lungs that he has to consider the scorching temperatures outside, as well. He doesn't have any time to waste; there are only minutes before he won't be able to survive taking even a step outside.

Making up his mind in the blink of an eye, he throws the pieces into the travel-box and steps up to the zippered door of the tent. He takes a huge breath, filling his lungs to capacity and holding it in.

Unzips, then dashes outside. Kirk pauses a moment to close the door – he doesn't want Archie to expire while he's gone – and is immediately blasted by the sun's punishing rays. He resists the urge to gasp in air, resolutely telling his instincts that they are _wrong_ and the only way this'll work is if he keeps the air he has _inside_.

Walking quickly so as not to generate too much additional heat on his own, but not stay outside a moment longer than he has to, he crosses the narrow space between his tent and the Vulcan's. His lungs are on fire, begging for a fresh wave of oxygen, but he can't give in. The heat is burning every inch of exposed skin as he struggles with the zipper, seconds feeling like hours before he is able to lower it enough to force his way in.

Without pausing to see how Spock reacts to him tumbling inside, he rushes to zip the flap back up. Only then does he fall backwards onto the soil, gasping air into his desperately angry lungs. The chessboard gets flung from him as his arms spread out on the ground, and he blinks furiously to clear the spots from before his eyes.

After several moments, he has cooled off enough to try moving again, and blinks up at Spock in confusion. The other man is seated at his travel desk, his cup still suspended halfway to his lips. Surprise highlights his eyes, as he stares down at Kirk's prone form. As he catches Kirk looking at him, one eyebrow slowly raises in assessment.

"Illogical. What impulse could possibly tempt you to emerge into temperatures that you are fully aware cannot be survived by your species for any length of time?"

Kirk grins up at him from his position on the floor, inordinately entertained by an upside down Spock. Without looking, he points in the general direction of where he believes the travel case landed.

"Chess." he manages to gasp out, wiggling fingers that feel strangely crinkly after the intense heat, "It seemed like a perfect opportunity to get in a game."

"I see." Spock replies, in the tone that means exactly the opposite, "So you decided to risk asphyxiating yourself to arrive at my tent…for a game of chess."

He made it, and he's alive – if slightly crunchy – and his grin widens even further, "Yup! I thought we'd get a couple of games out of the way now, because we probably won't get a chance tonight. Isn't that logical of me?"

The eyebrow slants at a sarcastic tilt, "Indeed."

Not deigning to comment, he rolls upward onto his feet. He makes a perfunctory attempt to brush off the loose dirt that is coating his pants, knowing it won't make a difference in leggings that are now more brown than black. Leaning over, he retrieves the chessboard from where it had fallen on the floor.

Spock may have acted like he wasn't happy to see him, but Kirk notices that the Vulcan's little desk gets cleared off very quickly. Congratulating himself – on the inside – for his great idea, he sits down across from the other man and begins pulling out the game pieces.

In no time, the entire chessboard is set up and they settle in for a game. A comfortable silence falls over them, as they enjoy the game and the quiet atmosphere of the sleeping camp.

(*)

Setting down his last load, Kirk straightens up – stretching until he gets a satisfying cracking in his back. He surveys the neat rows in the sand, the supplies stacked in such a way that they're easily accessible to the Vulcans. A grin suffuses his features as he takes in their last job in a mission he didn't expect to enjoy as much as he did. The crew members around him return his smile, also pleased at their work.

This is the last day they will be on the planet, and they had to make time to ferry the rest of the supplies down for the Vulcans on their new world. As soon as it was safe to emerge from the tents they had gotten to work. Each of them had been focused, and running efficiently they'd gotten all the crates down and safely out of the way in record time. Pride enters Kirk's smile as he thinks of his crew, amazed at how well they are now working together. Even more amazing is that the work crew is made up of only about half Human. Equally represented are members of the Vulcan race, working side by side with their Human counterparts with seamless, flawless, ease.

Catching sight of Scotty off to the side, he makes his way through the crowd to the other man. Scotty is surveying their handiwork as well, scratching his balding head as he converses with the engineer beside him. As Chief Engineer, he had been in charge of sorting out the supplies the _Enterprise_ could spare, and coordinating the effort to get them all to the planet safely.

"Is there anything left, Scotty?" Kirk asks as he comes to a halt in front of the Scot, his grin still clearly apparent on his face.

The other man cheerfully returns his smile, the exposed skin on his chest and face almost as angrily red as that of Chekov.

"Nae that Ah can think of, Captain." he replies, watching as the crew begins gathering in small groups, waiting for any further orders, "The last load is on the planet, and Ah believe we are finished."

"Great!" turning back to the crowd, he addresses everyone present, "That's enough work for today, everybody! Now we can all find out if the food's ready!"

A scattered cheering ensues, and then the groups start slowly dispersing from between the rows of boxes. Kirk clasps Scotty's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze as he turns the other man away from the supplies. He needs to get Scotty away from any further work before he gets lost in it again; otherwise, the Scotsman will get sucked in and forget about the festivities planned for the evening.

"C'mon, Scotty, let's get there quickly; we don't want the good stuff snatched up before we get a chance!"

The Scotsman turns to look over his shoulder one last time at the neatly piled crates, and then allows himself to be lead away.

"Ah cannae tell ye how good an idea that is!"

Side by side, they move to the temporary picnic tables, joking along the way. Scotty's friendship is perhaps the most surprising to Kirk, considering their vastly different backgrounds. But it seems their shared sense of humor was enough to give them a foothold, and their friendship has grown from there. He is happy, as he genuinely likes the opinionated Scot, and is glad he was able to help get the marooned man off Delta Vega. Kirk is even happier that Scotty agreed to come back to the _Enterprise_ , and be part of his crew. In so many ways, the man has already proven to be invaluable – and they haven't spent any length of time on the ship yet.

The two friends load their plate with all manner of dishes, some of them well known and others completely alien. The food is laid out on trestle tables in the large clearing, picnic tables strewn around them for people to gather at. The dishes that contain meat are clearly marked, so that they are not ingested by the Vulcans on accident. As with the work crews, the groups gathered at the picnic tables are a satisfying mixture of Human and Vulcan. Here they converse easily, the Humans laughing as everyone relaxes companionably together.

Once they have their food, Scotty and Kirk begin mingling with the crowd, passing slowly from table to table to share in the camaraderie. They are welcomed happily into each group, and time flies by as the sun starts to set over the gathering.

The Scotsman is regaling a group of younger Vulcans with the story of how he came up with his equation for transwarp beaming. Kirk listens with half an ear while he scans the crowded tables, trying to decide which they will visit next – when something strange catches his attention. In the sea of happy people stands one table, its occupant alone and silent. Nyota Uhura sits, miserable, by herself; resolutely focused on eating her food and ignoring the emptiness around her.

Making a quick decision, he pats Scotty on the shoulder in parting, and slips through the crowd. He seats himself across from Uhura, and watches her for several moments as she continues with her meal. Kirk notices that she's not really eating her food, just shifting it around the plate and occasionally raising a bite to her mouth to nibble on.

His heart aches for the sorrow that is leaking out of her, and he reflexively reaches out and rests his hand atop hers, giving comfort the only way he knows how.

"How are you holding up?" he murmurs quietly; even though there is no one close, he doesn't want to draw attention to their conversation by raising his voice.

She finally raises her eyes to meet his, heartbreak and confusion caught in her gaze.

"How do you think I'm holding up?" she asks, no malice in her voice, just a bone-deep weariness. Her eyes are ringed by dark circles, and she appears slumped in on herself.

"I'd say you were doing better than most. You're still here, after all." he replies honestly, not flinching from the pain in her gaze. She's his friend, and he cares, and he's not going to leave her alone. No matter how uncomfortable the situation is.

Something that isn't even the ghost of a smile passes across her lips, as she looks around at the crowd, "That's true. Even though my presence isn't really noticed."

He squeezes the hand under his, and gives a half smile, "You're always noticed, Nyota."

She gives him a real half smile in return, "Thanks, Kirk."

Any further conversation is interrupted as Bones drops down onto the bench beside him. He waves in Uhura's direction – his apology for the interruption – as he focuses in on Kirk.

"There you are, kid! I've been looking everywhere for you!" he declares, taking a swig of his beer as he settles in for a while.

Then his manners catch up with him, and Bones turns to the woman seated across the table from him, "Evenin,' Miss. Where's that green-blooded hobgoblin you're so fond of?"

Kirk actually cringes as he watches all the warmth seep out of Uhura in an instant. Her features freeze in a candid, surprised expression that shatters around the edges. He squeezes the hand beneath his once again, silent apology for Bones' callousness. Kirk turns to his friend to reprimand Bones, when it occurs to him – he also hasn't seen the half-Vulcan in the past several hours.

Not that Spock can't take care of himself, but Uhura is not the only one who should be kept from being lonely on their last day on New Vulcan. Resolute, Kirk rises from the table. Uhura flashes him a look of fear, the loneliness creeping into her face once again.

Kirk gives her a reassuring smile, and pats Bones' shoulder, "Hey, can you make sure Uhura has a good time for me?"

Now it is Bones' turn to look up at him with terror, as he gulps; "Now, kid, I don't know if that's a good idea –"

He stops the tirade before it begins, leaning in close enough that Uhura cannot hear, "Just keep her company until I get back, okay?"

The doctor takes in the expression on his face, and nods once in agreement. He then turns to Uhura, a flush of heat across his cheeks, and engages her in a stilted conversation.

Striding confidently from the pair, he weaves through the crowded tables until he reaches the edge of the gathering.

"Kirk to bridge. Tell me if you can get a lock on Commander Spock's location." Even though there's even fewer crew on board than usual, he's confident that he'll get a response. Whoever could be spared from up above is participating in the feasting, but there are still people manning the bridge.

"Aye, Captain." a pause as the Communication's Officer does their job, "It appears that he is located 3 kilometers to the east, at least according to his communicator."

"Great, thanks. Kirk out." closing the link, he orients himself in the right direction and slips away.

Out of necessity, the clearing utilized for the feast is on the very edges of the east side of the camp. This works to Kirk's advantage, as he doesn't have to waste time threading through buildings to get to his First. Nodding at the guards, he slips through the line and in the right direction. As he begins his solitary jog to Spock's location, he mentally pulls up any bits of information that he can remember regarding the terrain along this route. During their stay on New Vulcan, he hasn't had an opportunity to leave the camp; but, he can recall from looking at the topography charts with Chekov that there is a drop-off located not far in this direction.

As he reaches steeper, rockier ground, he slows his pace. Sighting a slight path slipping its way through the shrubbery and larger rocky projections, he turns his attention to following it carefully to its destination. Considering the surrounding terrain is highly impassable, the trail's end is the most likely spot for him to find Spock.

Before he realizes it, he's reached the edge of the precipice. The ground falls away, dropping thousands of meters into the valley below. The view is staggeringly beautiful – the air is so pristine he can see clear across to the perimeter on the other side.

A sharp silhouette interrupts the view; a silent, watchful Vulcan standing on the very edge of the cliff. Immediately sensing the solemn mood, Kirk crosses forward until he's next to Spock – careful not to get too close, and intrude on the other man's personal space.

Spock glances at him from the corner of his eye, and then his attention is riveted again on the scene before them. Without turning to him, the Vulcan addresses Kirk; "I am unsurprised that you were able to discern my location."

He responds with a half-smile instead of a full grin, somehow expecting Spock's odd behavior.

"I had a little help," Kirk replies, tapping his own combadge in explanation.

The eyebrow closest to him rises for a fraction of an instant, and then resumes its normal position, "Indeed. The communicators do have many uses."

"I came to see why you weren't with us." he murmurs into the stillness, feeling out Spock as he tries to broach a sensitive subject. It's a trick he learned from observing the other Vulcans; circling around the topic so they could all carefully not-talk about the real issue.

The eyebrows shift again, this time drawing inward in the slight impression of a frown, "Indeed. I was simply engaged in the necessary act of meditation, and required a period of time to reflect before rejoining the crew. The designated timeframe where my meditation is set to occur is during the afternoon period of rest. But due to unforeseen circumstances that section of time was occupied this afternoon, and I had not gotten a chance to exert the customary control over myself."

As always with the Vulcan, the explanation is perfectly logical. Kirk's not quite sure if Spock believes it himself; but Kirk certainly isn't falling for it. There have been plenty of times when Spock doesn't have the afternoon hours to himself to meditate, and he's gone the entire day without interrupting his normal activities. But Kirk knows it would be a mistake to point this out, so instead turns to the view before them.

And his breath is taken away. The sun is setting behind the horizon, shooting streams of golden-tinged color through the sky, and illuminating the few clouds in glorious detail. Nestled in the dome of the sky are a few pinpricks of light, the first stars visible in the gathering dusk.

"It's…beautiful." he whispers, awed beyond words.

Surprisingly, his simple statement elicits a reaction from his taciturn companion. Spock turns to give him a sharp, considering look, then devotes his attention to the colors painted on the landscape. As he stares at the scene, something inside the Vulcan seems to loosen, and the reserve that had appeared at Kirk's arrival begins to thaw away.

"It is indeed aesthetically pleasing." he admits, and indecision flashes across his features, "And yet…."

Withstanding the urge to interrupt, Kirk glances at Spock from the corner of his eye, observing the tell-tale signs around his eyes and lips. There is misery there, more than he expected and a curl of worry wraps itself around his heart. This is more than Spock not wanting to leave the remainder of his people.

"For reasons I am unable to fully explain, I do not find it pleasing in a personal fashion." Spock admits, softly, and then pauses.

Kirk resists the urge to watch the Vulcan, curious now to find the seed of Spock's loneliness. Hoping… but not expecting anything, as he whispers just as quietly; "Why?"

The Vulcan's head shifts slightly, observing him for a full minute. Then he appears to make a decision, looking back out at the sunset that brought up this turn of conversation.

But instead of answering the question directly, he replies with; "When I was a child on Vulcan, I would find myself exploring the hills around my home. On many occasions I would be in the wilderness as the sun was vanishing behind the curve of the planet, and I would pause to observe the phenomenon. The colors traversing the upper atmosphere as the sunlight filtered through were one of the most beautiful sights I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing."

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk watches as those dark dark eyes close, memory bringing out stark delineations of heartbreak and unacknowledged pain on an otherwise unmarred face.

"I must admit, I find the absence of those same colors in this nearly equivalent atmosphere unsettling. The entire experience is lacking, and yet I cannot ascertain the exact reasoning behind my entirely emotional response. It is illogical, and yet I cannot control the inexplicable sense of loss." a nearly inaudible hitch in a low voice, the only hint of emotion carried with what is said.

Kirk turns to look at the Vulcan, his eyes widening with surprise as the low words wash over him. This is not what he expected, at all, and the admission causes him to stare at his companion in open amazement. The sun has set even further, and the colors in the sky form a backdrop to his profile. The stern, sharp lines are softened in the twilight, the tips of his ears and cheekbones highlighted in warm colors. His eyelashes stand out in stark relief against the pale skin of his cheekbones, and the air stills in Kirk's lungs as Spock continues.

"And I find myself overcome with the irrefutable desire to speak with my mother, and tell her how I am affected. She was always describing to me tiny details of Earth, and I was never able to comprehend the reason for this. And now, when I am overcome with the same desire to share a piece of something that only exists in my memory, I can finally understand."

Spock's eyelashes tremble, and Kirk is overcome with a wave of tenderness springing from someplace deep inside himself. He knows the strict control Vulcans impose on themselves, and that even admitting to experiencing an emotion is highly distasteful.

He gathers the words to himself, taking them as the precious jewels they are, and hides them close to his heart. Daring, he takes two steps forward; reaches out, and rests the tips of his fingers gently on Spock's shoulder.

The Vulcan looks at the hand on his lean shoulder, and then glances into Kirk's eyes. Without comment, he turns back to the sunset. A deep breath and Spock gathers back in on himself, as the ache inside him appears to ease. They stand in silence as Kirk watches the lines of sorrow slowly seeping from Spock's skin.

And that's when it hits him. He is standing here, in front of the best sunset he'll ever have the chance to see. And he's more captivated by watching the minute expressions on his Vulcan First Officer's face than the colors painting the sky.

In that moment, he is forever lost.

 ****

* * *

 **A/N:** AND ACT ONE IS DONE!

Now, my wonderful readers, I have a SURPRISE for you! I commissioned the beautiful, the super-talented, the MAGICAL Lenap over on DeviantArt to do some illustrations for Flavor. The first of three appears HERE:

(*EDIT* OH FOR PETE'S SAKE WILL NOTHING WORK RIGHT TODAY. OK, link is in my profile, cause for the life of me I can never get A HERF thingies to work inside of the stories themselves. If this is POSSIBLE and someone knows HOW please note me. I'd love you forever.)

And depicts a scene from this chapter. GO LOOK, AND LOVE! And while you're over there, view ALL her glorious beautiful artworks, AND COAT THE PLACE IN COMMENTARY! Cause she so totally deserves it for the all kinds of awesome she is!


	13. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** This chapter has been rewritten, and no longer appears in its original form. It has been remade, and is better than it was before!

**A/N:** This chapter has been rewritten, and no longer appears in its original form. It has been remade, and is better than it was before!

 ****

* * *

 **Act Two

* * *

**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

The light tints the morning air, highlighting an entire section of the tent city that is, for the moment, ominously empty. The campfires, which for so many mornings have been cheerfully baking breakfast, are cold and dead. The wind whistles softly through the canvas, making little dust devils curl along in the empty pathways.

At the loading area of the campsite, the ground that used to be coated with shuttles has just one remaining. Kirk is in the shadow cast by the craft; his Bridge officers are the last of his crew still on the planet, comfortable in their places beside him. They have already been up to the ship that morning, and had time to wash and dress in full uniform before returning to the planet for the send off. Unlike them, Kirk's presence was required the entire time to coordinate the departure efforts on the ground, so he didn't get a chance to slip away and clean up first.

The Vulcan High Council stands off to one side, dressed in their most formal robes as they officially see them off.

One Vulcan is mingling with the Humans; giving warm goodbyes to the people she has gotten to know from her friendship with Kirk. Pausing when she reaches him, Surel stands blinking up at him with unhappiness in her eyes. He grins to ease her hurt, and when she steps forward tentatively, he pulls her in for an affectionate hug.

Surel stiffens for a moment, the unaccustomed contact overwhelming her. And then she relaxes, tentatively returning the hug. Kirk's grin widens as he feels her acceptance, then he plants a kiss on the top of her soft hair. Satisfied, he releases her before the council members burst with indignation.

She pulls away, blushing a bright green as she tucks a stray piece of hair back behind her ear. Her eyes dart back and forth, lingering on the stiff-backed Council, before she turns back to Kirk. Reaching up, she takes the first two fingers of her right hand and touches them gently to his cheek.

Blushing even greener, she mumbles, "Goodbye," and disappears.

She is gone as quickly as that first time he saw her, so many weeks ago. His fingers rest over the spot she touched, a slight tingle still felt after the contact. Turning to his officers with a question in his eyes, he senses there's more to the gesture than a simple touch. Most of them are oblivious, but Spock is watching him with a curious tilt of an eyebrow, and Uhura – Uhura is staring with open-mouthed surprise.

Their reactions, while certainly interesting, don't indicate that it's anything he should be worried about. Reassured, he turns away as the shimmer of an incoming transport begins, signaling the captain of the _Nebakanezer_ has arrived.

The _Nebakanezer_ reached the planet late the previous night, and the two captains had a long, drawn out conversation via vidscreen to coordinate efforts. They both agreed it would be easier to remove the crew of the _Enterprise_ from the planet's surface before the relieving crew begins to arrive. This short meeting is the extent of face to face contact the two ships will receive.

A moment passes, and Captain Osway materializes. A middle aged Human with deep brown skin and graying hair, he strides with confidence in Kirk's direction – without needing to pause and regain his equilibrium.

Osway comes to a halt before Kirk, nodding slightly in acknowledgement of their similar rank. Blatant in his disapproval, he eyes Kirk up and down. His eyes then glance behind Kirk, at his crew, who look pristine in their freshly pressed uniforms – and then back to Kirk.

Kirk rankles, the pup at his side flashing teeth as Archie picks up his mood. He knows what he looks like in his dirt-encrusted trousers and boots, with his chest exposed and glistening in the early morning heat. His hair is scruffy, left to fend for itself without a trim for a month.

He unconsciously mimics the dog's expression, teeth flashing in what could never be considered a grin as he returns Osway's appraisal. There are spots of sweat already blossoming on the other captain's previously pristine uniform; under his arms and down his chest. His immaculately styled hair is starting to flatten in the oppressive heat, and he looks incredibly uncomfortable in so many layers of cloth.

Kirk knew there were going to be issues the moment he interacted with Osway the night before, and is thankful that their direct contact will be limited to this one meeting. As soon as he's back on his ship, he'll be free of this man and his condescending air. He'd rather spend another _month_ with the entire Vulcan High Council than a minute more than necessary with Osway.

Head held high, he returns Osway's assessment with confidence of his own. "I know you probably won't listen, but wearing full parade dress is really not recommended here. You won't survive a week."

A derisive curling of Osway's nose, he responds, "Of course a whelp like you wouldn't know proper respect. When in the presence of the leaders of our planet's staunchest supporters, I will wear nothing but my best uniform. If you'd had the proper years of experience you would do the same, but instead they gave command of the flagship to a cadet and made a mockery out of captaincy."

He can feel the force of Bones' anger radiating against his back, amazed that his friend is able to refrain from a pithy response. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Sulu, hand automatically on the hilt of the sword he has with him at all times, fury blazing on his face as he takes a step forward.

Spock freezes the lieutenant in place with a look, then strides forward. Every step is, as always, assured and confident – but Kirk can see a subtle change, the tension coiled in the Vulcan's shoulders as he makes his way to his captain's side.

"Captain, it is time for us to depart now our duties here have been fulfilled." Clipped words, as the Vulcan pointedly refuses to look at the newcomer. Kirk can see the obvious snub, but it appears as if Osway is just taking Spock's behavior as typically Vulcan.

Kirk nods to acknowledge the message, keeping his focus on the man before him. "Suit yourself," he tells Osway, shrugging off the antagonism.

There are any number of reasons why Osway doesn't approve of him, but Kirk suspects it's his apparent unprofessionalism – and Kirk's unheard of ascension through the ranks. Kirk's used to people not thinking anything of him, but it's hard to let this one slide off his skin. If he didn't have the knowledge of his year probation hanging over his head, he'd let Osway know exactly what his thoughts are on the matter.

But instead – with no further comment for the other captain – he ignores the derision completely and crosses the distance to the Council. As he approaches them, his bearing changes to one of grave reserve and deep respect.

Raising his right hand in the traditional Vulcan salute, he gives the ceremonial farewell, " _Dif-tor heh smusma_ ."

As one, they return the salute, the same words ringing through the clearing in their strong voices. And then, completely unexpectedly, the Chairman steps forward, separating himself from his fellows.

He pauses several paces before Kirk, then bows his head briefly to the Captain.

"We had doubts when Starfleet first suggested the flagship escort us to our new home to assist in the transition. But there is no doubt, Captain James Tiberius Kirk, that you and your crew have been invaluable and with your assistance we have achieved far more than we believed possible in such a short span of time. We, the people of Vulcan, owe you a debt of gratitude."

The Chairman's words are clearly heard by everyone present, including Osway, stony and furious at Kirk's back.

Kirk lets a grin flash across his features, truly glad he could help these people. Then he lets the grin slide away, as he returns the bow respectfully.

"The honor is all mine, Chairman," he responds. "Through helping your people, my crew learned how to work together as a team far more quickly than we could have done otherwise. I'm sure that'll be invaluable in the future – thank you."

The Chairman nods in acknowledgement, no change in his facial expression but a slight hint of warmth around his eyes.

Satisfied that no one can claim he treated them with anything but respect, Kirk turns and, with Archie trotting at his side, disappears into the shuttle, pride and his perpetual cockiness hardening the lines of his back. Heads proudly held high, his officers salute the waiting Vulcans, and follow behind their captain.

(*)

The cool air of the _Enterprise_ is a welcome relief, but the change in temperature serves to heighten Kirk's awareness of the coating of sweat along his skin. He feels disgusting, and desperately, pathetically, needs a shower.

They split into small groups to head to the Bridge, Kirk and Spock the last two to go up, sharing a turbolift – the pup patient at their feet. Spock looks perfect in his blue shirt and pristine black trousers, further highlighting how filthy Kirk feels. His mind already made up, he punches in the command to stop at Deck 5 to go to his quarters. His unexpected action is followed by a completely expected reaction – the eyebrow nearest him raises a calculated fraction of a degree, expressing curiosity.

Grinning to try and shake away the remnants of his encounter with Osway, he answers the unspoken question. "Mr. Spock, you take the conn. I don't have the advantage of Vulcan physiology, and I desperately need to take a quick shower. I'll be in my cabin, but have Lieutenant Uhura notify me if necessary."

Humor shimmers around the Vulcan's eyes as he replies, "Understood, Captain."

Anxious to be clean, Kirk exits the turbolift with a swift step. He makes sure to wave goodbye to Spock – getting an entertained nod in return – before the doors whir to a close behind him.

As soon as they're safely ensconced in his quarters, Archie leaves his side to inspect his surroundings. The dog's tail wags joyfully as he wanders around, and Kirk grins to see such comfortable behavior. Satisfied, he turns his attention to peeling what's left of his clothes from his body. Lifting them up to eye level, he inspects the sorry excuse for pants. Torn in multiple places, the dirt is so ingrained it's unlikely they'll ever be black again. With a grimace of distaste, he tosses them into the recycler, happy to be rid of the vile things.

The boots he sends down to the quartermaster's, hoping their less damaged outer shell can be repaired. His under things, while crusty with sweat, are none the worse for wear and go into the laundry chute for cleaning.

By now the sweat coating his body has had time to dry, and there is a crunchy shell of dust on his skin. Resisting the urge to scratch the unbearably itchy layer, he grabs a towel from his dresser and is heading to the bathroom, when the comm unit on the wall alerts him to an incoming message.

Shaking his head in annoyance, he watches as flakes of dried salt float out from his hair. Standing still, he answers the call.

"Kirk here."

"Captain," Uhura's voice comes over the intercom, "The _Enterprise's_ new orders have been sent to your console, and are waiting for your acknowledgement."

"Understood, Lieutenant. You've had a moment to review them, I assume – where are we headed?" He gives in and begins scratching a particularly itchy patch behind his left ear, listening attentively as Uhura continues.

"We've been assigned to the Capella System, where we will be finalizing a trade agreement between the Federation and the Quakel leaders. The planet is rich in Dilithium – also, their species achieved space flight three years ago, and are hoping to eventually petition for entry into the Federation."

He frowns darkly at the news, glad he is alone in his cabin where no one will witness his expression. Starfleet seems intent on giving him nothing but diplomatic missions that will never give him the opportunity to really prove himself and his right to the captaincy. He may have enjoyed himself on New Vulcan, after all, but it was not the type of assignment he wanted for their first mission. Even though the news discourages him, there is nothing he can do. He has to play by their rules – at least until this year is over.

A pause in the communication, and then the intercom crackles back to life, "Starfleet also sent a dossier along, sir. It includes any information on the Quakels that may be pertinent to the mission."

His frown reappears and he glances at his desk in the corner. It's already littered with stacks of disks that represent a considerable amount of paperwork, most of which he's unfamiliar with, and they haven't left orbit yet. On top of that, he knows there are meetings with department heads scheduled for the time they're traveling to their next destination, which will generate even more work for him to do. There just isn't time for it all.

"Study the dossier, Lieutenant. You'll be on the ground with me, and I want you to know those details. Also, schedule a meeting for tomorrow so you can give me an overview of what's in the report."

Again she pauses, but he is too intent on running through what he knows of his schedule to notice. "Yes, Captain," she replies, and then adds, "But don't you think it's important for you to be familiar with all the details before our arrival?"

Normally, he would tend to agree with her. But he also knows that he won't have time to go over the minutiae. It will be better this way. "I have other responsibilities at the moment, Lieutenant. You have your orders."

"Yes, Captain." Her voice is clipped and professional.

"Acknowledge the new orders. Anything else can wait until I make it to the Bridge. I'll be there soon."

"Understood, Captain."

Able to resume his interrupted activities once again, he drops the towel on the counter and slips into his shower. Activated by his entrance, the heat automatically envelops him. He sighs in pure contentment as the water rolls over him, loosening the caked sweat and cleaning his body.

Letting the water wash away his frustrations with Osway and missions, he enjoys a few precious minutes to himself before he resumes his duties as captain.

(*)

The main rec room is full of the buzz of conversation, and the warmth of moving bodies. A group of tactical officers is gathered around a virtual reality machine in one corner, a gaggle of engineers placing bets on the outcome of a video game rematch in another. Every table and surface is occupied by people performing all manner of activities. Once a crewmember is off duty, it is almost guaranteed that they can be found in a rec room. It's the perfect place to spend down time and socialize, especially considering the cramped state of most of the private quarters on the ship. It's only their second night on the ship as a crew, and the novelty certainly hasn't worn off yet.

Alpha shift has ended, the _Enterprise_ well on its way to the Capella System, and the Bridge officers have congregated in rec room B. Kirk is seated at a little table pressed into a corner, Spock protected from any unexpected contact by the walls of the room. The chess board is laid out between them, a game underway.

Kirk is unsurprised to see Chekov, Sulu, Bones and Scotty occupied with a poker game off to one side, cheerfully betting precious bits of unreplicated chocolate. They brought Uhura along as well, and she's seated near Bones, watching the byplay intently.

Spock notices him observing the game, and stiffens noticeably.

"If you would rather spend your limited recreational period with the rest of the crew, I would not require an explanation."

Hurriedly, Kirk looks back to the Vulcan, apology and worry in his eyes.

"Oh no, Spock, that's not what I want!" he quickly consoles, rotating in his chair so his back is completely to the room.

Spock relaxes – marginally – and a hint of confusion highlights his tone. "Then may I ask why you are distracted?"

This is not going well, not at all like the companionable games they've been sharing in this same room. Ever since that first game, they've been beaming back to the ship for their rematches. But, somehow, this feels different. He's uncomfortable, and awkward, and not sure what's affecting him so. "It's just…." He shifts in his seat, "I'm not used to all these people being here. It's distracting, you know?"

A slow blink is his response, as Spock considers his question. "Indeed. But this is the designated use for this particular room, and this is standard occupancy."

"I know, I know. But it was so nice when it was just the two of us," Kirk mumbles, focused on the game as he picks up a pawn and moves it into an offensive position. So far, they had each won about half the time. But he has to work on maintaining that average – Spock never gives him a moment's rest, constantly coming up with new mind-bending strategies.

His words are met with an odd look, and his brow furrows as he glances up at Spock. "I just don't want you thinking that I don't enjoy your company, or that I want to be somewhere else. I made that bet for a reason, and I'm not letting you out of your commitment that easily." A sly smile curves his lips. "Unless you want to admit that I'm a better player than you."

The Vulcan finally relaxes completely, moving a rook to counter Kirk's pawn. "I believe that would be unwise, Captain. To date, I am in the lead with a 53.2% winning average. In fact, if either of us were to admit premature defeat, it would be your place to do so."

His smile doesn't deflate at all, and he shifts his next piece as he responds, "Damn Vulcans and your perfect memory. I'd almost thought you'd forgotten that."

A perfect eyebrow rises as Spock's queen magically appears inside Kirk's defenses. "Check."

Kirk crows inside as the Vulcan falls for his cleverly disguised trap, not letting any of his excitement shine through on his face. He is now confident that the game is his.

Head still tilted down for a view of the board, Spock glances up at Kirk through those long lashes. "And considering that your people have portrayed eternal damnation as perpetual, unbearable heat and a jagged red-tinged landscape, I would categorize 'damned' as an accurate assessment."

There is real _laughter_ in those eyes, and it blindsides Kirk so thoroughly that it takes a moment for the words to filter through his amazement. And then the improbability of Spock making a joke – and a good one at that – registers in Kirk's mind.

It starts with a grin that widens into outright laughter. He has to lean back in his chair, holding his side with his head thrown back because he is laughing so hard.

His response garners quite a few curious glances, but he doesn't care. He's so caught up in the memory of Spock's amusement, and the smooth satisfaction radiating outwards from the Vulcan that the hull could crack and he could be sucked into the vastness of space…and he wouldn't even notice.

* * *

The first thing Kirk notices about the Quakels is their size. Not so much height – although they are, compared to Humans, a rather tall race. It is their width that is truly impressive. Their shoulders are thick, their musculature hard and prominent on their stocky bodies. He finds himself intimidated by their apparent physical prowess, but refuses to show it. He's here to negotiate a trade agreement, and he can't let them have any advantage.

After three and a half days at full warp, they arrived at Quakel mid-morning, beaming down immediately to introduce themselves. He chose Uhura, Spock, and Bones as his landing party, together with two members of security, rematerializing just outside the city.

When the effects of the transporter end, Kirk finds himself amazed by the pastel colored landscape. It looks like something out of a dream, all soft hues and pleasing fluffiness. Their surroundings strike a sharp contrast to the Quakels waiting to greet them.

Striding across the strangely spongy ground, the consistency of the earth puts an odd bounce in his step. His three officers follow close behind as he walks up to the dignitaries. Three squat beings stand at the ready, their faceted eyes – atop long stalks – swiveling slowly.

They are positioned in an even line, their posture not giving any obvious signs of who the leader is. Making a decision on the fly, he crosses to the one wearing the most elaborate decorations, and makes a slight bow. He then holds out his hand, palm up, to shake the alien's appendage.

A scintillating membrane slides across the surface of the being's faceted eyes, and its fellows on either side make some sort of clicking noise. With a pointed glance in his direction, Uhura pushes his hand down with both of hers and steps forward.

She murmurs something quiet and urgent, in a smooth series of practiced clicks. The beings nod their be-stalked heads from side to side, talking animatedly.

Uhura continues conversing with them, indicating each of her crewmates in turn as Kirk stands uncertain and uncomfortable. The translators are still, unfortunately, not performing all the functions the engineers want them to. Frustration begins to overcome his confusion, as he's inundated with their strange language – with no assistance forthcoming.

After several minutes of conversation, Uhura turns to him. "Raise your right hand, and wave it at them. Like the beauty queens do, not the horribly obnoxious wave you normally give," she orders, her voice deceptively pleasant, but annoyance flares in her eyes.

Kirk hurriedly follows her instructions, and then the beings scuttle in a circle and begin leading the way into the city. His crew falling in behind, Kirk is in the center with his officers forming a protective circle around him.

Spock is stiff and silent at his side, exuding carefully crafted Vulcan calm. Bones has a more jittery-bounce in his step than usual, as he eyes Kirk from behind.

"What was that all about, kid? Is it just me, or did they give you the evil bug-eye?" he asks, his voice low as he keeps track of the Quakels' progress before them.

Gauging them a safe distance from the aliens, Kirk opens his mouth to respond with similar confusion, when Uhura cuts him off, hissing the words out of the corner of her lips, "I told you toread the dossier!"

He stiffens automatically at her tone, and has to fight to keep a flush of embarrassment off his cheeks. "And I ordered you to give me all the information necessary to complete this mission successfully!"

The reprimand actually stuns her enough to freeze her in her tracks for several moments, and then she has to scramble to catch back up. Spock's eyebrow rises in consideration, and Bones – following many years experience with women – wisely exits out of the conversation.

"I did my best, but there's no way I could have known exactly what details you were going to need to cover every situation! In the briefing I told you they were aggressive, and to avoid any displays of dominance. You just insulted the Chancellor by saying he's too weak to be a threat – without even knowing it!" Her frustration is clearly evident in her expression, and Kirk has to fight hard to keep control of his own anger.

"Then it's obvious that the information you put in your briefing fell short of what was needed, Lieutenant. I don't have time to do more than skim most of the considerable amount of documentation that comes across my desk. I hoped you'd be up to my delegating that task to you," he replies evenly.

"So you expected me to do all the work, and keep you from making a fool out of yourself? I've been doing nothing but study that language file for three days straight, and you don't even have the decency to –" her frustration visibly shifts into anger, and she crosses her arms over her chest, as if it'll help hold in the rest of what she wants to say.

It's quite clear to Kirk that her anger stems from the viewpoint of being slighted by a friend – but that's not the place she should be in at this moment.

Uhura mumbles a few words in a language that Kirk can't even identify, causing Spock to raise his eyebrow a degree further, indicating clear surprise.

It's apparent that he understands at least some of what Uhura is mumbling to herself, and Kirk turns to glance at him with a questioning Vulcan's brows shift together in the barest hint of a frown of disapproval **,** and his hand shifts to indicate that it's nothing Kirk should be too concerned about.

Satisfied, Kirk lets the outburst go for now – they have a job to finish. But he makes a mental note to address Uhura's insubordination at the earliest opportunity.


	14. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** For those of you that have been waiting patiently (or not so, in some cases XD) I thank you from the bottom of my heart! I'm so sorry for the delay, but it was necessary. I have undertaken, with the help of my phenomenal new beta, awarrington on Livejournal, a massive re-write of Part Two. There were a lot of things I wasn't happy with, and I'm so very very grateful to her for offering to help me. Her assistance has been invaluable!

**A/N:** For those of you that have been waiting patiently (or not so, in some cases XD) I thank you from the bottom of my heart! I'm so sorry for the delay, but it was necessary. I have undertaken, with the help of my phenomenal new beta, awarrington on Livejournal, a massive re-write of Part Two. There were a lot of things I wasn't happy with, and I'm so very very grateful to her for offering to help me. Her assistance has been invaluable!

What does this mean to you, dear readers, besides the delay? It means that I have had to rewrite quite a bit of Part Two, Chapter One. If you would please re-read the chapter before this one, than carry on to Chapter Two.

As apology, this chapter (I hope) makes up for it? :D

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Two

* * *

**

"This place scares the crap outta me," Bones hisses under his breath, checking carefully to make sure that his comment is hidden under the soft hum of Uhura conversing with their hosts.

The city towers around them, testimony to the skill of the Quakels. The alien beings have created delicate buildings suited to their fairytale landscape. Spires and towers abound, the constructed edifices made out of some substance that resembles blown glass, crazy pastel hues swirled in unrecognizable fashions on the smooth rounded surfaces. The buildings, combined with the improbable candy landscape, combine to make Kirk feel like he's stepped into a scene sprung from a little girl's imagination. And he agrees with Bones, wholeheartedly – their surroundings terrify him to his core.

Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Kirk gives a rueful grimace. "I know, Bones, it scares the crap out of me, too! It's just too _cheerful_ – I'm kinda waiting for the monster to appear and steal the princess."

They have been touring through this seemingly imaginary city all morning, and have stopped by a beautiful fountain for lunch. Instead of water, there is a frothy lavender substance erupting from it that has the consistency of mousse. Suspiciously, it resembles one of the dipping items in the meal provided by their hosts.

They are supposed to be on the planet to negotiate a trade agreement – but there's the tour and a banquet scheduled for the first day, and then they'll be able to get down to business the following morning. Until then, Kirk doesn't really have to take an active part in conversations and has gladly faded into the background, leaving Uhura to charm the Quakels. The security team is spread out around the perimeter, keeping alert for any threats.

The look sent his way then is grateful, on so many levels. "The Monster's already here, kid – they just haven't kidnapped anyone yet!"

He can't help the grin that slowly spreads across his face, as he nods his agreement. His brain can't quite juxtapose the thought of their escorts being native to this candy-land planet. But there is no time to joke further, as Uhura is beckoning them over – back to the group where she and Spock are talking quietly with their hosts. Not wanting to keep them waiting, the two men hurry to rejoin the cluster of people.

A moment as Uhura finishes her comment to the Chancellor, and then she turns to him. The lines of her mouth are still taut with anger, but her voice when it comes out is pleasant and politic.

"Captain – the Chancellor wishes to inform you that after the meal is finished, they have nothing else planned until the banquet this evening. He did not know if you wanted us to stay here and explore, or to beam back to the ship," she explains, then waits expectantly for his response.

Quickly, he considers their options. It's a good sign that their hosts are allowing them the option of exploring by themselves, but – the possibility of something going wrong while they're wandering is too high, especially considering that Uhura is the only one with a decent grasp of the language. And it'd be beneficial to remove themselves for a while, take advantage of the unexpected free time to properly go over the mission brief and any new information, and return fully prepared for the banquet.

"Tell the Chancellor that while we appreciate his offer to allow us to remain, we will beam back up to the _Enterprise_ and return before the banquet begins." He glances at his second with a grin. "You'll be able to adjust for the time differences, and make sure we're not late, won't you Spock?"

The Vulcan nods, his hands still grasped loosely behind his back, but his expression softens minutely when he replies, "Of course, Captain."

Mirroring his nod, hers somehow stiffer, Uhura turns back to the Quakels and passes his message along. Even though her demeanor is purely professional, she is obviously still annoyed over Kirk's perceived slight earlier that morning.

Frustration rolls in his belly, and he runs his hand through his hair as he considers his options. He'll have to have a talk with her –

His hand flutters to a stop at the base of his neck, as he notices the Quakels have stopped listening to what Uhura is saying – and are staring at him instead.

It's difficult to read their body language, but it seems as if their postures have hardened. And then he's certain of it, as that scintillating membrane flashes over their faceted eyes once again, almost in unison. He looks to Uhura for an answer, only to see confusion flashing across her face – and she shifts away from them, infinitesimally, at the display.

Whatever it was, their hosts recover quickly, the Chancellor responding to Uhura's comments in their clipped language. Then, as one, they stand – addressing the four of them as a whole.

"They are saying their temporary goodbyes, and that they will meet with us at the designated time," Uhura translates, her brows still slightly furrowed after their strange reaction. "And that the coordinates for the transport will be given to the ensign on duty."

After a suitable comment by Kirk, the three aliens depart, leaving Kirk, at least, wondering at what had just occurred.

(*)

After the door closes behind him, he pauses for a moment, tapping his fingers lightly against the bulkhead. Her gentle hum helps him think, as he considers what little information was gleaned through the away team's hurried meeting. Archie appears at his feet, his tail thumping gently against Kirk's shins as he watches his master intently.

Kirk glances down at the puppy with a grin, and then his eyes return once again to the piles of data PADDs stacked on his desk. He should have several free hours before duty calls again, and he wants to use them as effectively as possible.

Walking over, the puppy following behind, he begins sifting through them. Every moment not otherwise occupied has been spent working through these stacks, yet they seem to be getting taller instead of dissipating. He never quite comprehended how much paperwork was involved with being a Captain – until now.

He just hopes he won't be buried beneath it all. Kirk believes he's come across an organization technique that will work – partly by importance, partly by deadline; so far it's been keeping him ahead of the curve. But just barely.

Finding what he was searching for, he pulls out the dossier on the Quakel mission, then toes off his boots as he makes his way to his bed. It's so much more comfortable, and he is used to studying there.

Flopping onto his belly, his hand automatically scratches the head that settles next to his arm. He grins to himself as a soft pink tongue leaves a trail of saliva up his arm – sloppy puppy kisses – as he uses his other hand to bring up the data in the PADD.

His hand stills above Archie's head, pausing mid stroke, eliciting a pleading whimper. The _Enterprise_ is not Starfleet's first choice for this mission, he discovers. The _U.S.S. Firefly_ , a light cruiser, was given the task of forging a treaty with the Quakels. The _Firefly_ ran into a Romulan Warbird on the way to the planet, and after engaging it, barely made it to the nearest Starbase for repairs.

The _Enterprise_ was subsequently given the mission because they were the only ship close enough to make it to Quakel before the timeline ran out for the negotiations to begin. Not because Starfleet believes them the best crew for the task; not because any of the Admirals believe he and his crew have the capability to pull the treaty off successfully.

He realizes it was naïve to believe they were past this, now – that he's proven himself, that his crew have proven themselves capable of pulling off the impossible. His hand grips the PADD tightly, white-knuckled in his aggravation. Apparently, Barnett, Pike and the others are only willing to go so far when it comes to handing him responsibilities – and simple milk runs are all they think him capable of.

This only serves to harden his resolve, and he shakes off the feelings of frustration that their lack of faith engenders. He will take this opportunity for what it is, and prove to them that he's capable of taking anything they throw his way.

With that in mind, he bends himself to his task, reading through the rest of the information contained within the PADD. Out of habit, his hand begins massaging soft ears. He trusts his intelligence knowing that if he devotes this unexpected free time, now, to reading the specifics of the Quakel culture, he'll be able to remember – and won't repeat the mistake of the morning.

He's been focused for about an hour when the door chime sounds, letting him know that someone is requesting entrance. Knowing who it most likely is, he gets up from his bed. Archie shifts as if to follow, but he gives the signal for the dog stay in place. If he's correct, he doesn't want the beagle distracting his visitor.

Once Uhura's inside his quarters, he walks over to his desk, making a conscious decision to lean his hip against it – subtly bringing attention to the stacks of PADDs still waiting for him to go over. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waits.

"You wanted to see me, Captain," she says, not mincing words. Her head is held high, her pony tail neat and straight and heavy down her back.

He sighs, forcing his hands to stay where they are – instead of rubbing the back of his neck, like they want to.

"Explain your behavior this morning, Lieutenant."

Her mouth firms into a hard line, as one eyebrow raises in an eloquent arc. "I thought you were going to do your work, as Captain, and read the dossier. Instead I found you left it all to me and I feel like I'm being taken advantage of."

Kirk lets his eyes harden as he slips further into the role of her commanding officer. "Lieutenant, our friendship cannot get in the way of our duty. Your behavior towards me on the planet was highly unprofessional. While we are on a mission, you do _not_ question my decisions, especially not in front of alien dignitaries – not to mention other members of my crew. When I ordered you to give me a summary of the contents of that dossier, I was making the best Command decision I was able, under the circumstances – giving myself time to deal with other paperwork that had urgent deadlines.

"I expected to be able to depend on you, as part of my command team, to do that job thoroughly."

Uhura's eyes widen in shock and she lifts her chin defensively. Then she glances down at the piles and piles of paperwork he's so very carefully not tumbling over. He sees her eyes soften and the hard lines of anger smooth out of her shoulders.

"If an incident like that happens again," he continues, knowing she's listening now, "I will write you up on charges of insubordination. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?"

She nods, looking him in the eyes. "Yes, Captain. It won't happen again."

"I'm glad to hear that, Uhura," he responds, letting the muscles of his own shoulders relax now, "because I need to be able to depend on you."

He lifts the PADD he brought with him from the bed, pulling up the pertinent entry. "Now, I've been going over these details, and I think I'm missing the significance of this entry here. Can you explain it to me in more detail?"

Uhura pauses for a heartbeat, then comes up next to him, also leaning carefully against the desk. After reading the custom, she nods with a hint of a smile.

"Oh, yeah. I know the guy who wrote up this report, and his wording can be confusing sometimes."

Kirk lets a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. "You're telling me!"

She glances up at him from the corner of her eyes, and a genuine smile appears. "Well, what he meant was…"

(*)

After several discrepancies get explained, Uhura excuses herself, stating that she has a few more responsibilities she has to complete before they beam back down for the evening.

Satisfied that both their professional and personal relationship will remain intact, Kirk allows himself to finally run his hand through his hair once again. Then he nods to himself and takes a couple minutes to change into his dress uniform, so he can work right up until they need to head back down to the surface. He then rummages around in his bureau, finally locating his Medal of Valor, which he proudly pins to his chest.

Now that that's taken care of, he can devote the next few hours to reading the rest of the dossier with focus and intent. Not wanting to get his uniform rumpled, he sits at his crowded desk, whistles the puppy over to lie at his feet and gets back to work.

Hours later, he's deeply involved in his task when the door chime goes off once again. Without looking up from the PADD so as not to lose his place, he instructs the computer to open the door. It slides into the wall with a whir, and his visitor enters his quarters. Kirk doesn't have to look up to know it's Spock – he can tell by the measured tread on the carpet. He spends a moment marking where he's got to before giving his First his full attention.

"Captain, we must depart at this time. The Quakel dignitaries are due to meet with us in nine point three minutes, the security team has been assembled, and the feast is about to commence." Spock crosses the threshold into Kirk's private quarters, then stops just inside the door.

"Okay, okay." He murmurs in response, standing as he finishes up the last part of the section he's been reading. "Just let me finish this bit, and I'll be ready…"

Silence reigns, the Vulcan ever polite as Kirk scans the last words on the page, devoting them to memory.

Allowing himself to grin, his eyes lift from the PADD. "Finally done! Now I shouldn't have another blunder like I did this morning! I'm just glad I got the time this afternoon to…."

His voice trails off, the words disappearing from his mind as he is captivated by the vision before him, his eyes widening in amazement as he drinks in the sight of his First in full dress uniform.

Rich, deep black and midnight blue – it's tailored to fit the Vulcan's form like a second skin. The colors, somehow, perfectly match the shade of Spock's hair – the blue flashing highlights as the light dances across the straight, silken strands.

Somehow, the combination only serves to heighten the depth of his eyes. And Kirk is lost again, unable to look away from those dark, dark orbs. He could drown in the hints of brown washed in the black, could lose track of where they are or what he is doing – and the time constraints that are placed upon them.

"Captain?" Spock says, bringing him back from the brink of…wherever he had been.

"Sorry," he responds, blinking as he shakes off the strange sensation, then looks down at the PADD clutched in his hands. "Nevermind. Got distracted for a second."

Setting it down on the desk, he joins Spock at the door. A glance at his First Officer has his heart doing strange flip-flops in his chest as Spock raises an eyebrow eloquently.

He plasters his customary grin on his face, trying to shake away whatever makes him feel disconcerted in Spock's presence.

"Are you with me, Commander?"

"As always, Captain."

(*)

He's slowly dying – very painfully – of boredom.

It's driving him mad. He's at the head table in the dining hall, with the Quakel Chancellor on his right, and Uhura at his left. Spock, as his second in command, is seated across from him, with Bones further down the table.

Kirk feels as if he is alone in a sea of sound – the Quakels and Uhura are engaged in a conversation in the alien language, and even though he's able to pick out a few words now, he can by no means follow along. The music playing from hidden speakers around the hall is full of discordant tones which don't draw him.

For some unknown reason they sat Bones too far away to carry on a discussion, but Kirk can see as his friend gestures animatedly with his fork to punctuate a story. The Quakel beside him watches, enthralled – it cannot understand the words accompanying the gestures, but the display is certainly astounding.

And Spock – Spock is silently absorbed in his meal.

To release some of his tension, Kirk lets loose a sigh and stares at his own plate. The delicately carved dishes do not resemble anything he's ever seen before – even vastly different from the meal they'd had at lunch – and he's not quite sure where to begin.

Kirk's eyes dart over to Spock's plate, across the wide table from him. Everything that can be safely identified as vegetarian has disappeared, and the Vulcan's hands are manipulating one of the utensils to eat something vaguely gelatinous in nature. His long, tapered fingers gently grasp the handle of the instrument, his movements so full of unconscious grace and beauty.

Distracted, he no longer cares about how strange the food is, and fumbles one of the utensils into his grip. He recognizes one of the dishes as the same semi-gelatinous goo that Spock is currently eating, and lifts a scoopful to eye level so he can inspect it properly. The texture certainly doesn't look appetizing, but it should be safe if the Vulcan is eating it. Kirk has to resist the urge to stick out his tongue for a tentative taste first, instead sliding the whole utensil-full into his mouth.

Soft, and buttery smooth, it has a riotous expanse of flavor that bursts on his tongue. Interesting, even if he can't identify the flavors that envelope his taste buds. Not delicious, no – too strange for that – but certainly edible.

Grateful for life's small gifts, he carefully begins sampling the rest of the dishes on his plate. Most of them fall into the same category as the gelatin, palatable but not appetizing. A few of them he wouldn't want to taste again, but some of them are genuinely scrumptious.

Like the crumbly sweet cake-like creation he's nibbling on with fervor when he feels a soft hand resting on his bicep. He turns to Uhura, giving her a smile as he licks the crumbs off his lips.

The smile disappears when he sees her face shadowed by sadness. His brows pull together as he looks at her questioningly, but she shakes her head softly in denial.

"No, just. They want to know what it was like – when you 'gloriously defeated Nero'."

And the table stills around them, as the Quakels wait anxiously to hear his translated response. He can feel the excitement running through them, and he has to crush his immediate reaction – which is of regret and loss. Memories flood him, of hallways echoing emptily, a lost generation of bright futures – and countless generations of Vulcans that will never be, a home that the survivors will never see again.

But, he has to remind himself that the Quakels are a very warlike race, and to them the battles would have been glorious instead of heartbreaking. And he knows that the petitioners wanting entrance into the Federation have not been informed of exactly how debilitating Starfleet's losses have been.

Gulping, he gives Uhura the reassurance of a smile, then turns to address the being who asked the question. He paints a story with his words, pausing frequently to give Uhura time to translate for him. Glossing over the loss of the five ships, he focuses instead on the valiant actions of his crew and how his skills as Captain brought them through the tragedy – important to illustrate, considering that trade negations will begin the next day.

He can feel Spock's eyes on him, but avoids returning the gaze. He knows, from being let in on that last night at the new colony, how deeply affected Spock still is from the loss of his planet and his people.

His hands fist under cover of the table, angry that he's forced to talk about this – but he really should have expected it. The crew was sheltered while on New Vulcan, and prior to that in the Academy, where the press were kept well away from them. Kirk has forgotten he will have to speak about the Narada battle on occasion. Many they are going to come in contact with will want to hear the story…with the notable exception of the Vulcans who lived it with them.

When he's done twisting his words into the semblance of a tale, he sighs. Only then does he risk a glance at Spock – and sees sorrow in those dark, but expressive eyes. The lump of emotions tangled in Kirk's throat gets even tighter; and it's hard, but he manages to pull his eyes away. Turning instead to Uhura, his hand runs through his hair to settle at the muscles of his neck.

Other than the music playing quietly in the background, silence reigns again, this time hot and tense as the Quakels, who were listening so intently to Uhura's words just moments before, radiate righteous anger.

He freezes, confusion replacing his surprise as he glances around the room, watching as that scintillating eyelid flickers across hundreds of pairs of eyes, all staring directly at him. And even though his back is turned, he can feel the Chancellor seated to his right shifting behind him.

His eyes slide back to Uhura, and he raises an eyebrow in question. She looks as confused as he feels, her eyes also roaming the crowd to try to find out what triggered their response. Her eyes travel back to his, and she shrugs eloquently – she still can't determine why they're upset.

Whatever the cause, it seems to be directed at him. Everything that's happened has been well within the "safe" conduct described in the dossier, and he can't tell what he did to make them blink their eyes in such a way. But, based on their reactions, he determines that the best course of action would be for him to disappear for a while.

Excusing himself quietly, he escapes from the dinner table and slips onto one of the many quiet balconies lining the dining hall. He's grateful the clashing sounds of their music don't reach him through the glass door he closes behind him, the silent emptiness a welcome relief. He uses the balustrade for support as he stares out at the orange waxing moon hanging just above the strange-looking city stretched out before him.

He draws some comfort from the fact that the stars are the same ones he's used to seeing, although the shapes of the constellations that are so familiar to him, the ones he remembers flying in the sky above Iowa, are not evident, their configuration different at this angle.

Out here, he can empty his mind of thoughts crowding far too close, and allow his intellect to tangle in the welcome puzzle of the Quakel's latest anomalous behavior. A niggling idea, dangling just out of reach. Maybe it was Uhura and him speaking together. Or, something as innocuous as his hand on his neck, perhaps –

A sound as the door creeks open and closed behind him and he knows he's no longer alone. Expecting Bones – his friend would never leave him to linger too long on thoughts of the Narada after living with him through the aftermath of it – he's about to turn to face the doctor with a witty comment on the tip of his tongue, but it immediately dies when he recognizes the soft, measured tread on the floor and turns to see Spock standing, bathed in the soft light that falls through the glass door.

"Spock!" he says in surprise, his tone earning him an expression of mild curiosity.

"Had you assumed it would be someone else?" Spock asks, continuing forward until he, too, is standing against the railing. Not leaning as Kirk is, but brushing it nonetheless; and merely an arm's length away.

Kirk resumes his original position against the banister, joining Spock in looking at the moon, as he replies honestly, "Bones. He's usually the one running after me to make sure I get fixed – if fixing's necessary."

"Indeed," is Spock's only response, and Kirk glances at the Vulcan suspiciously from the corner of his eye. He senses a decided hint of grief, perhaps in the usual smoothness around Spock's eyes, reminding him of the look that was thrown his way earlier.

Turning, he gives the Vulcan his full attention, waiting patiently as Spock observes him for several moments, silently, before his lips part.

"They should not have asked," he comments, quietly, the low words barely a murmur.

Kirk blinks. He thinks he knows what reason lies behind Spock's unusually candid remark, but asks anyway. "Why?"

"It is not polite to ask, with the destruction of a planet so recent," Spock replies, his brows moving fractionally closer together.

Considering the words, he wonders how much his account, though he kept it brief and factual, brought up unwelcome memories for his friend. Of its own volition, his hand automatically reaches out towards that arm so close to his to offer silent comfort – but he pulls it back when he remembers who this is.

"Yeah, it's not very politic of them to bring up the incident with a Vulcan in the room – they know you lost your home." He's reminded of the reasons he answered their questions in the first place and his own brows draw together. "But, come on Spock – you gotta admit that if Vulcan hadn't been involved, your people would have asked the same questions."

The wing of an eyebrow rises as Spock gazes at him for a long moment. And then says, grudgingly, "It is possible."

Focused in his intensity, he leans in a little bit, all of his attention on the Vulcan before him. He is struck again by Spock's beauty – the clean line of his jaw, the delicate ears coming to perfect points. A warm flush of – something – suffuses Kirk, relaxing him enough that he's able to view the circumstances from his normal, cocky perspective.

"You know it's true. Maybe not right away, but they would have wanted to hear the story – and no amount of Vulcan logic can hide the fact that you guys are curious about everything. Including heroic spaceship battles."

The eyebrow rises still further, and then lowers with a flutter.

"You are correct, Captain. The pursuit of knowledge is always a worthy endeavor, and we would have been unable to resist requesting further information."

Knowing he's won the argument, he leans back in contentment. Then he continues the line of his thinking, aloud. "Besides, I need to get used to the questions. They aren't going to be the only ones to ask. And you should be prepared to answer them, too," he adds. "You're half of the heroic duo that pulled off the daring rescue plan."

He watches as Spock turns to the darkened sky, pondering for a moment, as a definite crease line appears between his eyebrows. Any trace of sorrow is gone completely, replaced by annoyance – and a curling of humor, though how he knows that, he's uncertain.

A glance his way, and then Spock's eyes focus again on the stars. "Once again, you are correct. Although given how loquacious you have a tendency to be, it is highly improbable I will be asked anything."

Kirk's eyebrows rise in surprise, as he contemplates the multiple meanings of that statement. "Hey – are you calling me a blabber mouth?"

Spock's head tilts to the side as he regards his captain once again, the humor in his eyes evident as the luminescence from the interior lights make his pale skin glow. "I believe that is the term in Standard ascribed to such a proclivity."

His grin appears, not in full force but definitely evident as he responds, "If you're trying to be funny, it's working."

The Vulcan's eyes sparkle for a second, before he turns away to study the sky once again. His sharp profile is highlighted in the starlight, striking and accented flawlessly by the dark blue of his dress uniform. "Perhaps that was my intention."

It's a soft admission, completely unexpected and therefore precious. The warmth inside spreads, making Kirk stand up straight once again. He tightens his grip on the balustrade, physically restraining himself from reaching out to turn Spock so he can see the expression in the Vulcan's eyes again; from the urge to simply touch the one before him.

He no longer sees the backdrop of stars, his sight stolen completely by Spock's elegant form; captivated, undone. And then it's as if the floor disappears beneath him, as he realizes he hasn't been able to _stop_ staring at Spock. Not since their last night on New Vulcan, when –

He swallows hard as the implications cause a flood of adrenaline to course through him and looks down, mortified, so that Spock cannot get a hint of what must surely be visible on his face. Now that it has been exposed, there's no turning back – he can no longer hide the truth from himself.

He's falling for his First Officer.

He's left tense with the reverberations of this revelation as the first wave of sensation recedes. Now that it's been acknowledged, it does not fade completely. It coils and makes a spot of warmth in his chest, a compass needle that is unerringly oriented on the lean form beside him.

It feels as if eternity has passed in the space of those few heartbeats, but Spock would tell him that time is still ticking at its relative rate. The Vulcan beside him, entirely oblivious, continues to stare at the stars as Kirk emerges from his epiphany.

"Captain? If you have had sufficient time to recover your equilibrium, our presence is still required in the banquet hall. They will begin to question our absence shortly." The low words, though completely innocent in context, send a soft shiver down his spine.

Trying to separate himself from the new emotions coursing through him, Kirk focuses for a moment on the cold stars sprinkled through the vaulted sky.

He takes a deep breath, and nods. Once he's fairly certain that most of what just happened won't be clearly written on his face, he turns to follow Spock back into the fray.

The whisper continues to sing through his veins.


	15. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's still Thursday, technically. XD

A/N: It's still Thursday, technically. XD

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

Once back inside, the light and sound assault him and he has to pause, blinking, at the door. Most of the beings in the room have finished their meal, and are standing in the area left open beyond the banqueting tables. They are gathered in clumps or pairs, conversing as they mingle with each other.

With so few Humans in attendance, it is easy to spot Bones and Uhura at the center of their own knot of Quakel. Unsurprisingly, by the time he locates the members of his command team and orientates himself appropriately, Spock is already halfway to the pair.

Following quietly behind, his tread is measured and steady in an attempt to calm the effects of the recent adrenaline spike. The epiphany chases itself around in his stomach, wrapping tighter and tighter as the knowledge of what he's just realized, and the possible repercussions, really sink in. He pushes the issue determinedly to the side, telling himself in no uncertain terms that he doesn't have time to be distracted while important diplomatic functions are occurring.

His efforts are successful, and he's back to being professional and focused by the time he reaches the tight throng of people. He nods to the Chancellor before him, shifting his weight to one leg as he glances around the circle. Bones is absorbed as he illustrates another story with his hands – the expressive man seems to be a favorite of their hosts.

But the shaken state of his emotions when he first re-entered the dining hall must have shown on his face – for those who have been trained to read the signs – as Uhura gives him a searching look. He hopes she'll assume it has to do with whatever it is he keeps doing to upset the Quakel. She raises an eyebrow poetically, asking without words if he's all right.

He doesn't want her worrying for the rest of the evening and distractedly runs his hand through his hair as he tries to think of something he can say or do to reassure her. On impulse, he sticks his tongue out at her to make light of whatever it is she noticed and to show her he's fine.

Before she can react to his playfulness, the Chancellor violently erupts. The alien being shakes, his mouth opening in a hiss-click-growl as an impressive crest of complex colors rises from the ridge line of his skull, like a peacock flexing its tail feathers. With the hissing, the Chancellor's tongue snakes out, long and pink and twisting.

Kirk freezes, a second adrenaline-spike – this one from fear – pumping through his system. He keeps his hands at his sides, loose but ready in an instant to come up in defense, as he slips his feet into a balanced stance, ready for combat.

As he does so, he automatically takes in everyone's positions, seeing other Quakel surrounding them, shifting on their feet in a rhythmic motion that seems half unconscious. Spock, who was standing at parade rest a moment before, is also ready for combat, moving to a defensive position on his right, Bones moving in on his left. Outside the throng, his security men have taken out their phasers, but aren't aiming them at anyone.

Kirk's not quite sure what happened, but it's obvious that the Chancellor's behavior is aggressive.

Uhura lays a soft hand on his arm. "Do you trust me to handle this, sir?" she asks him quietly.

Relinquishing control isn't easy, especially in such a volatile situation, but he's concerned that anything he does now may escalate matters. He catches Spock's eye and sees an infinitesimal movement of his head in affirmation.

Satisfied, he nods his assent to Uhura.

Her strong voice rings through the eerily silent hall as she calls out a command to the security team, ordering them to sheath their weapons. The only sound beyond her words is the hiss that is still being emitted by the Chancellor, his eyes covered completely by his scintillating membrane, his focus on Kirk alone.

She keeps talking, now in the language of the Quakel, taking a step forward – closer to the alien who is obviously in a rage over what, Kirk has no idea. Her movement breaks the Chancellor's concentration on Kirk, and his huge head swivels towards her, his hiss curling into something more akin to a snarl. Kirk sees Spock's body tense even further as she holds her ground, still speaking slowly and surely in the face of his the alien's fury – the only being in the room not frozen and watching the tableau.

Kirk is as tense as a snake poised to strike, as he holds back the overwhelming urge to pull her back and interpose himself between the Chancellor and his officer's slim form. Something tells him Spock is fighting a similar internal battle and he smiles, inwardly, at their protectiveness. The adrenaline coursing through his system leaves him panting and his muscles twitching, and it's hard for him to think straight. The only thing that continues to hold him in place is his knowledge that his ability to communicate with the alien is negligible at best, and he still has no idea what it was he did that set the Chancellor off in the first place.

Slowly, he sees that Uhura's calm words are penetrating the potent fury, and the Chancellor shakes himself – the crest still raised, swinging with his movements, looking even larger. The membrane protecting his eyes opens for a blink, and then shutters closed once again.

The intimidating alien stares directly at the diminutive woman before him, emitting two words in his clipped language – they sound slightly unlike anything Kirk has heard all day. The faceted eyes are focused on Kirk again, the force of anger hitting him like a brick wall as the Chancellor emits one last hiss. Then he turns, the crowd finally springing into action as it parts before him, and he storms from the banquet hall.

In his wake, he leaves a stunned silence.

It lasts only a heartbeat, and then there is an eruption of noise as, it seems, every being in the room begins speaking at once. To his left he sees Bones relax, and on the other side of him, he can literally feel Spock's heat as his First settles back into parade rest, the lines of his body still radiating tension.

"What the fuck was that—"

"Wait," Kirk interrupts McCoy's whispered tirade as he lets his fighting stance slip away, paying close attention as an alien being separates itself from the crowd and approaches them. It's the Chancellor's second-in-command, his name – like all the others – far too complicated a series of clicks for Kirk to speak, his robes not nearly as formal but coated in so much adornment that they jingle softly as he walks forward.

The alien glances at Uhura, and then addresses Kirk directly. He uses a much more stilted tone that Kirk suspects is from anger at whatever it was he did wrong. He's able to make out several of the words in the sentence, now – knows the alien mentioned something about leaving.

A spike of fear flares in his gut, as a flash of foreboding makes him think his ship is being banished – that, somehow, he's managed to mess up the entire diplomatic mission and prove the Admirals right in their belief that he's not up to taking on serious missions.

"What is he saying, Lieutenant?" he asks Uhura, his voice low and urgent.

Uhura is clearly shaken, as she responds, "He's saying you have to leave now, to get ready. Just a second–"

She switches into the alien language, asking the second in command what he thinks are some questions. He turns to her and replies but Kirk still can't figure out what the words mean, and a wave of anxiety washes over him as Uhura looks up at him with wild fear in her eyes.

"He says you must leave the presence of others and prepare yourself for the—" she finishes the sentence with a string of syllabic clicks. "Sorry, the words are an archaic form of the language that isn't directly translatable. It's essentially some kind of ritualistic duel, from what I'm able to tell, which will be held tomorrow."

It's only his pride that prevents him sputtering at the news as he glances around at the rest of the Quakel, who are looking deathly serious, and shooting calculating gazes in his direction. "A _duel_? Why? I don't want to fight anyone here!"

She dutifully translates, then her head shakes in disbelief as she tells him, "He says you don't have a choice. Once a challenge to a duel has been issued, the only way either opponent can retain their honor is by going through with it. Apparently it's because you aggressively challenged the chancellor." She shrugged, indicating she had no more of a clue how he managed it, than Kirk did.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Spock moving forward, about to speak – but Bones, who'd been spitting to say something since he'd silenced him earlier, speaks up first.

"Now look here, you ugly excuse for a sentient being," he growls, as he steps forward with a glare meant for every Quakel in the room, "my Captain isn't fighting anybody if I have anything to say about it!"

Before Kirk can rein in the doctor's temper, Spock raises an eyebrow and cuts Bones off. "While I agree with the sentiment, Dr. McCoy, your method of delivery leaves much to be desired."

And Bones' forward momentum is brought to a halt, as he pauses to decide whether he should take Spock's statement as an insult or not. While he's occupied, Spock turns to Uhura with a raised eyebrow that speaks volumes.

"Lieutenant," Kirk asks, before the doctor can recover, "request information on what exactly it was that I did to make this challenge necessary."

A pause as a conversation ensues, and Kirk wishes he can make out more than a few sporadic words.

"He says that you've been displaying your crest all day in front of his people. While you were out on the balcony, the Chancellor discussed it with him and said if you persisted in your blatantly aggressive display, he would be honor-bound to take action. When you came back in and did it again – along with a hiss of challenge – there was no way for the Chancellor to ignore it. The only way he could keep his honor and his place among his people, was to initiate the duel. His anger is not at you directly for doing it – he understands you may not comprehend the ways of his people – it's for making it impossible before so many witnesses for him to avoid it."

It only takes Kirk a moment, as scenes from the day flash before his eyes, to realize what "displaying his crest" means. And that sticking out his tongue at Uhura could certainly be construed as a hiss – especially after seeing the one the Chancellor directed back at him earlier.

He's struck by the ridiculousness of the situation…but also knows that this is stark reality, and that the duel is unavoidable – now.

Shaking himself to clear the sense of unreal that clings to his insides, he tells Uhura, "Ask him what the rules of the duel are." What he wants to know is what the winner has to do to gain victory. He wants to pull control of the situation to himself, watching carefully as Bones and Spock fall into support positions at his back – but still listening intently.

She lets loose a sigh of relief. "It's not to the death." At her words, Kirk inwardly echoes her relief. "The intention is to damage your opponent to the point where he is no longer able to fight." She turns back to the second-in-command to get clarification on a point. "It will be only you and the Chancellor in the ring, and each of you will be given a ceremonial weapon to use."

His little burble of honest fear bursts. He has confidence in his own abilities, but he's realistic enough to recognize that the Chancellor, like all the Quakel, is a seemingly solid block of muscle. While he won't have to worry about killing, or being killed, _no longer able to fight_ could still result in significant injury, partly determined by the nature of the ceremonial weapons they will be using.

"Do they have one I can borrow, to practice with?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to avoid the look that Bones is shooting in his direction. Like he's grown a second head, or something else medically impossible – but he doesn't have a choice.

The best he can do is be as prepared as possible, since whatever the weapon turns out to be, there's a strong possibility he hasn't encountered anything like it before.

In response the Quakel speaks to one of his subordinates, who disappears, not taking his eyes off Kirk for a moment – staring at him intently, and in increasing agitation.

"Lieutenant – he mentioned something about separating myself from others. Is that also a traditional part of the ritual?" Kirk asks, regarding the alien with equal intensity.

He is trying to determine how difficult it will be to take down one of his kind, what possible weaknesses their form might have – it doesn't look like there are many.

The scintillating membrane blinks once as the Quakel answers his question, and Kirk finds he has unconsciously shifted back into a fighting stance.

"He says, and I quote, 'it is a required part of the cleansing process, so that each warrior can get into the proper focus and clarity required for the duel. It is also a time where we pray to our warrior gods to grant us their blessing in the coming battle'," Uhura translates, her wide eyes betraying how she is feeling.

The Quakel sent after the weapon returns, rushing to the side of the second in command. Kirk blinks, himself – something that big should not be able to move that fast.

Stronger, and faster than he is. He's sure Spock could quote him odds on his winning, but he really doesn't want to know.

With a sharp phrase, the ceremonial weapon is handed to him. He takes the tangled mass in his hands, automatically checking for its effectiveness.

"Damn it, kid—"

"Doctor," Spock cuts in, sternly. "Your tendency towards over-emotionalism is not assisting the Captain."

Kirk shoots his friends a sympathetic look before turning back to the implement he's been handed. It reminds him, at least on the surface, of the Japanese _kusarigama,_ a deadly sickle-shaped blade attached to a long, heavy chain. On the opposite end there is the heavy weight of a large metallic ball that is coated in sharp gleaming spikes. His worst fear is confirmed. Regardless if the duel is not to the death, the nature of the implement means it could well end that way, even if inadvertently.

Unlike the _kusarigama_ , this weapon is not lightweight to make it easy for him to swing through the air. It is made for the greater musculature of the Quakel, and just hefting it, Kirk can tell he is going to have difficulty using it.

Instead of introspection, it appears like his night will be spent trying to teach his body the use of this unfamiliar weapon, while considering maneuvers he can make to avoid contact from his opponent. Letting the sickle-end dangle from the chain in his hand, he watches, feeling the movement as it swishes from side to side. He wishes that he'd had time to learn the more obscure weapons of Earth, that he had any background in the Japanese equivalent so he'd be better able to handle this one.

Not dwelling on that regret, as he is a practiced hand at improvising, he will devote himself to learning as soon as he is back on his ship.

"Spock. Gather all the rest of the information I'll need, including what time tomorrow the duel's set to start and where. I'll be in one of the exercise rooms getting comfortable with this," he tells them, his eyes already going blank as he formulates attacks and strategies in his mind.

"Understood, Captain," Spock replies immediately, stepping up to his side – so close that Kirk can feel the heat radiating off him like a touch against his skin.

It's a blazoned reminder, pulling him away from the situation and his formulations, as the freshly acknowledged feelings hit him once again. This awareness is still too fresh for him to handle properly, the realization simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. He forcibly pushes the warm flush down and out of the way.

With a nod to the second in command, and a glance at the rest of the Quakel around them, he pulls out his communicator. Requesting transport for one, he turns toward his crew with a cocky grin and a wave in the moment before the coiling lights of the transporter beam surround him.

In the last moment before he gets whisked away, he risks a glance at Spock – and somehow, the Vulcan's impervious calm comforts him.

(*)

The weapon, he discovers, is far too awkward and heavy in his hands to be truly effective.

He fingers the chain in his grasp, staring unseeing at the practice dummy before him. His shirt has long since been discarded, and he stands only in his sweat pants – his body coated in nicks and scratches from his short time using the weapon.

The practice has paid off, though – his average for scoring hits on the practice dummy has increased to three out of every five attempts. But he has no illusions that it would be good enough to beat the Chancellor.

He focuses on learning how to keep the damage done to his own body at a minimum. To do this, he needs to first know what the weapon is capable of.

His first hour back on the ship was spent researching in the computer databanks, finding all the information contained on the _kusarigama_ as his only frame of reference. In the _kusarigama,_ the weighted end is swung around to gain momentum and then unleashed towards the opponent. But unlike the _kusarigama_ ,the Quakel's weapon seems to have two sides capable of being swung towards an enemy – the sickle-side seems just as deadly when slicing through the air, as is evident by the state of the mutilated practice dummy before him.

Not only can the weight smash into him, or the sickle slice him to pieces, but the connecting chain can also be used as a weapon to tether or throttle him. He'll have to worry about it tangling in his legs, or his arms, or around his torso, and incapacitating him.

It's wicked and deadly and, he realizes, he's fully capable of making a mistake and damaging himself without the Chancellor so much as touching him.

Realistically, he knows his only hope is that the Chancellor is not an expert at this form of combat. He's already recognized the fact that it's a long shot, which is why he's still here, even though he aches down to his very bones.

While he'd been practicing, his mind was free to consider his options. It's obvious that the Chancellor didn't desire the duel in the first place. The only reason this is happening is because the Quakel leader needs to keep the respect of his people. Coupled with Kirk's attempts – and only minor success with – the weapon, Kirk determined that it would be best for him not to win the duel. That way, the Chancellor will regain his honor – and Kirk may have more of a chance of concluding the trade agreement to StarFleet's satisfaction.

His arms hang heavy and sore at his sides, the chain grasped in hands made raw by friction. Kirk's exhausted already, and he's only been at it for a few hours. It's so heavy, this weight in his hands.

The whir of the door opening and closing behind him lets him know he's no longer alone. Silence, no loud aggravated quips – not Bones. He's surprised Spock has stayed away this long – Kirk's certain he could come up with any number of logical reasons why he should assist his captain in his preparations.

There's a steady pace into the room, stopping a safe distance behind him. Without glancing around, Kirk wipes the excess sweat off his hands and, gathering his failing limbs, hefts the long piece of chain above his head and begins spinning it once again.

The feel of the weight in his hands, and the texture of whistling through the air, lets him know that it's the bladed side circling above his head, and his other hand keeps the weighted end close in preparation for defense.

Four times it whips around above his head before he finds his balance and has gained enough momentum – and then he lets go of that end, calculating the angle of the spin to send it towards the dummy before him.

He gets lucky, and the scythe plunges itself into what's left of the dummy's chest. A flick of his wrist that he's trying to make second nature, and the scythe slides out, and he pulls it back to himself.

His strength wants to fail him, but he doesn't want to show any weakness in front of his observer. So instead he grits through the pain, and coils the heavy chain links back into position, his hands full of weapon.

And he's amazed that he is able to complete it successfully – his stomach is in a knot, his quickened pulse buzzing in his ears, not just from his exertion, but because he's alone with _him_ , and –

He's being ridiculous. After all, he's been in Spock's presence, alone, so many times before. It's just it's different, now, because he knows, and he _feels_ –

Smashing those thoughts thoroughly, he turns to look at the Vulcan with his customary grin in place, wiping the excess perspiration from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

"What do you think, Spock?" he asks, holding himself upright and trying to ignore the sweat that burns when it trickles into his many scrapes and scratches.

"Impressive," the Vulcan comments, his hands clasped loosely behind his back – as always.

The normalcy of the Vulcan's stance, the calm he exudes by simply existing – Kirk tries to grasp onto these, as anchor points to ground himself and distance himself from the very real concerns he has about coming out of this in one piece. All good athletes, he knows, are taught to focus on winning, although his most practical concern is just to stay alive.

He cranks up the wattage on his smile, allowing himself to feel happy for just a moment as he basks in Spock's praise. His First is not given to hyperbole, so he's reassured by the positive comment.

"You think it'll be enough?" All seriousness, he glances behind his shoulder at the practicing dummy, which he may be good at whacking, but it doesn't move, or strike back.

An inquisitive tilt of his head, as Spock considers. "Taken on its own, your burgeoning skill with the weapon may not be sufficient. However, you are accomplished in the martial arts and I believe these two factors combined will give you enough of a margin to accomplish your goal."

The smile lighting his face then is real. "I should have known you'd be able to deduce my plan before I had to mention it. Oh, and is there anything else I need to know from your discussion with the second?"

"We were given many details regarding the ceremony surrounding the actual duel itself, and what your role in the ceremonies will be," the Vulcan replies in his velvety voice.

Setting the weapon down carefully on a rack, Kirk grabs his towel off a bench and sits himself gingerly down. Sore – nearly every muscle ached – he'll have to make a visit to Bones before he retires for the night, knowing he'll get a long lecture about getting himself into 'damnfool situations'. He doesn't mind, though, knowing it is his best friend's way of showing he cares.

Carefully he starts to towel off the sweat, watching cautiously for several deeper gashes he's given himself.

"What have I gone and gotten myself into?"

* * *

Real, bone-deep fear is not something Kirk experiences often. And so, it's no surprise that when he is waiting to be called into the arena, fear is not uppermost in his mind.

What he is contemplating is the ceremony that he's just gone through. Apparently, Spock's descriptions were not an exaggeration – the rituals surrounding the duel were so detailed and wrapped in pomp and ceremony combining, as far as he can tell, religious and secular traditions, it even surprised a Vulcan, whose own people are well known for their arcane ways.

It had begun early that morning, the hours wasting away as Kirk tried remain calm, forcing himself to ignore the menacing glares of the Chancellor. He could understand the concept of honor, and what the Chancellor stood to lose if Kirk was the victor. He wishes he could just take the alien to the side and explain the innocent mannerisms that led to this.

He wonders at the utter absurdity of the whole situation as a tricorder scans over his body for a last minute check of his vitals, and an angry doctor giving him glares that rival those of the Chancellor.

An instrument sounds outside, blaring harshly in the daylight, calling the combatants to the field. Then his arm is getting a squeeze, Bones' strong skilled fingers trying to impress his concern into Kirk's skin and any residual anger at the unfairness of the situation sluices away. A glance that says so much, and then the gruff voice lies, "You're an idiot, kid. Don't think I'm gonna patch you up afterwards – this time, I'll leave you for M'Benga to deal with."

The obvious care and worry in Bones' voice create cracks in his armor, and Kirk has to turn away for a moment. His own fear threatens, just beneath the surface, but he tries to crush it ruthlessly. Instead, he grins in response as he slaps Bones' shoulder. "You know you'd never let anyone else take care of me."

Bones' fingers still on his arm, then slide away to cross over his broad chest as he grunts at him. He watches as the doctor glance at Uhura, who is gazing back with a fond look in her eyes. Kirk keeps his surprise from his own eyes at the subtle by-play between two of his senior team, as he nods at his Communications Officer. She smiles back, apprehension clear on her face as she gives him a thumbs-up.

Without realizing it, he finds himself automatically looking at Spock, standing off to the side. At his most formal, the Vulcan observes them with quiet solemnity. Every inch the Commander, he stands ready for the duel to begin.

"Wish me luck, Spock?" he surprises himself by asking, needing some form of acknowledgement from him, as the sight of the Vulcan loosens the debilitating clutch of emotions that is threatening him.

Spock's head tilts subtly to the side, as his intense focus alights directly on Kirk. "That would be illogical, Captain. Neither random factors, nor the act of wishing them to be positive, have any empirical basis in science, and therefore cannot be shown to have any discernable influence on the outcome of upcoming events."

It's not what he wants to hear and he can feel his face fall, as his simple statement is irrevocably shot down.

"And yet, Captain," Spock smoothly continues, "it is my desire that you return to us alive and with all your vital components intact."

Though the sentiment is along the lines of what he is looking for, the language overrides any emotion. Yet it is so undeniably Spock that Kirk can't help but smile, and one corner of his mouth turns upward in response. He doesn't have it in him to give a real grin, but it's enough to lighten his mood.

It seems as if that is the response Spock was attempting to elicit, because as soon as the hint of a smile is apparent, he nods softly to himself.

Shifting his shoulders to loosen the tension, Kirk turns from his friends. Walking past the red-uniformed members of his Security team, he picks up the weapon that is waiting for him at the entrance to the duel field.

Leaving the trio behind him, he emerges from the tunnel and out into the daylight.

(*)

Barefoot, wearing nothing but the pants that are part of his uniform, Kirk slowly circles his opponent. Conserving his strength, he is swinging the weapon slowly back and forth at his side – ready to lash forward for an instantaneous attack. Toes dig into the soft spongy ground as he balances on the balls of his feet, all his attention focused on the enemy before him and reading his actions before they occur.

The Quakel is matching him step for step, circling warily as he regards him with an intense anger. He has to forcibly remind himself that this duel is not to the death; that even though the alien is glaring at him with murderous intent – and hissing continuously – he does not have to worry about anything going too far. He hopes.

And then he doesn't have any more time to think, as the scythe that the Chancellor was swirling around his head is suddenly thrown forward, viciously slicing through the air as it is aimed at Kirk's vulnerable chest.

Reacting purely on instinct, Kirk drops into a crouch and sweeps his own weapon forward in an attempt to tangle his opponent. The Chancellor easily sidesteps the weighted ball, a sharp easy tug pulling his own scythed weapon back to him.

Someone that bulky should not be able to move that quickly, and yet the fish-insect-man seems to glide above the ground. Gone are the deceptively slow movements Kirk had observed in the species previously, as the skills that clearly demonstrate the Quakel's predatory nature are brought to the fore.

The spiked end of Kirk's weapon grinds itself into the dirt with a thud – causing him to grunt in surprise as he tries to drag it back to himself. He manages to pull it free after a moment, as he rolls out of the way of another slice of that deadly blade. But it is cumbersome and awkward, and he has no time to get back into position to use it.

A split second decision and he drops the other end of the chain, coming back to the balls of his feet with hands empty. Too awkward, too unknown. He has a better chance with only the weapons he was born with.

He needs to neutralize his opponent's advantage. Right now, that's the Chancellor's speed and the maneuverability of his weapon. Thinking quickly, Kirk lunges forward – under the deadly swirling blade and, balancing himself on his hands, swipes forward with a heel that slams into the Chancellor's shin.

The takedown appears to work for a moment, as the alien stumbles. But he quickly regains his balance, and backs away with a snarl.

Kirk grunts as the impact travels all the way up his leg, jarring his clenched teeth inside his skull. Not only is the alien bulkier than him, his structure is incredibly dense. Several varied strategies flash through his mind, and are as swiftly discarded.

Using his momentum from the kick, he swings into a roll, and comes up on the balls of his feet once more. He shifts himself just in time, the whistle of the spiked ball hissing past his ear.

Light, speed, bounce. Gathering himself, he launches into the air before the Chancellor can get the weapon back into position. Kirk uses the sponginess of the ground, and the planet's lower gravitational pull, to bounce off the brute's chest and to execute a spinning kick in the air that he would normally not be able to pull off. Using his heel – the hardest part of his foot – he strikes the alien squarely in the jaw with as much force as he can muster.

Elation fills him as the Chancellor is dazed, forced by the impact to stumble backwards several steps. Hope joins the elation; if he can keep this up, he has a chance of keeping the Chancellor dazed enough to avoid any real damage.

Without a thought, he is floating in the air again, intent solely on taking advantage of his momentum. His instincts are in control, and he goes immediately for the most vulnerable part of the alien. The eye stalks.

All thoughts of minimizing damage flee as a crushing force wraps tight around his ankle, whipping him around and pounding him against the ground. There is a sickening crunch of snapping bone, as all the wind is knocked out of Kirk, and his sight is overcome with flashes of light. In his elation, he'd over calculated the time it would take the Chancellor to get his weapon into play. The alien took advantage of his screw up, and grasped the opportunity provided.

Pain flares up his leg, making him gasp in agony. The flashes of light refuse to leave, as the radiating anguish travels in waves. Bones is going to be so angry at him.

Taking a deep breath to try and gather himself, he pushes off with his hands and swings his other leg around. One last desperate attempt to free himself; he puts all the strength he has into the kick headed towards the alien being.

The leg is easily caught in the air, halfway through its strike, and his own momentum is used against him as he is flung around and battered against the ground once more. The grasped ankle is contained in a grip that is just shy of crushing his bones, but the tiny pieces of his ankle are grinding together and it would be unbearable – if the pain from his splintered bone didn't surpass it one thousand fold.

His ribs are surely bruised from so many hard impacts with the ground, several definitively broken, as he lies gasping for air. And then the Chancellor's appendage is against his throat, clamped tightly around his air supply. Unable to fill his lungs, they burn in agony almost as badly as the spikes of pain traveling up from his ankle.

The desperate need for air overrides any pain, and he pulls ineffectually on the appendage. Somehow, there's enough of him left to wonder at the irony of being defeated by a choke hold, of all things.

It's the last thing that registers before darkness overtakes him.


	16. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Why did I ever think that writing a 100k + fanfic would be easy? Fun, and rewarding as all get out – but this is never easy, lol!

**A/N:** Why did I ever think that writing a 100k + fanfic would be easy? Fun, and rewarding as all get out – but this is never easy, lol!

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Four

* * *

**

Waking up groggy from painkillers does not come as a surprise.

His head feels like there is an iron band squeezing tightly – probably from the oxygen deprivation – and his chest throbs with each breath. Now, he remembers how painful it is to break ribs. But even worse than the ribs is his ankle, which is shooting needle-sharp complaints up his nerves, even through the painkillers – which tells him they're starting to wear off.

The machines connected to him beep, alerting Bones that he's regained consciousness, and in an instant his friend is by his side. Kirk watches for several minutes as the doctor checks all the readouts for updates.

"Well, kid, it looks like you got lucky," Bones tells him, as he inspects the last readout. "The lower section of your tibia and fibula bones both snapped cleanly through, the other ankle is whole – if bruised to the bone – and only two of the ribs actually broke. Because the tibia's such a large, weight-bearing bone, even with osteoregeneration, we'll have to keep the leg in a cast for a few days, and the ribs will be wrapped for a while, but everything'll heal nice and straight. And it appears that your larynx didn't suffer any permanent damage, though it'll probably hurt to talk for a while."

Upon hearing the words, the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding exits his lungs. He's relieved nothing permanent's been done – but the thought of his mobility being hampered by a cast irritates him more than it should.

Instead of letting it show, he lets a relieved smile flash across his features, as he tugs on Bones' sleeve to get his attention. His voice doesn't want to function properly, and there's a strange cotton-feeling that means it will hurt if the painkillers wear off any more. He coughs to clear his throat. "How are things on the planet?" he croaks.

The doctor glances at him, eyebrow raised sharply. "Never a thought for your own health, is there?"

His smile slips into a grin, as he replies, "You know the answer to that by now." A pause. "So?"

Bones sighs in response, then reaches over Kirk's head, and pushes a button. A trickle of fluid flows down the IV and disappears into Kirk's vein. Almost instantly, he starts to feel the returning pain recede and gives an appreciative sigh.

"I've been with you the whole damn time, kid. I don't have any details," Bones says, not beating the dead horse. "But from what I gathered from Spock's last visit up here after I finished operating on you, the outcome was 'acceptable.' The Quakel are just waiting for you to be cleared for light duty, and then they'll talk to you about the trade agreement."

Hope fizzles through his heart as he turns a speculative gaze at his friend. "And how long before I'm free of your kingdom?"

This time it's Bones' turn to grin, as his friend gets a maniacal glint in his eye. "Well. You are _awfully_ abused, captain-mine. Several days, at the very least, before I can let you scoot around in a wheelchair."

" _Days_ , Bones?" Habit has him crossing his arms over his chest, before he realizes that move causes pain even through the meds. And then he freezes as the other horrid realization hits. "Did you say _wheelchair_?"

The grin has a definite evil cast to it, as Bones replies, "Oh, yes. Your entire body is covered in bruises, kid. With the broken ribs, there's no way you'll be comfortable on crutches for any period of time. A wheelchair's the only option."

He's left sputtering at the indignity, unable to grasp for words. Which only widens the grin on Bones' face.

"I'd almost think you were enjoying this!" he retorts, saying the first thing that pops into his head.

The grin immediately disappears, Bones sobering in an instant. "While I may be enjoying the thought of having an excuse to order you around for a while, I'm just grateful that you're in one piece. Mostly. The Chancellor must have been angrier at you than we thought; when you'd passed out, he didn't want to stop choking. He almost killed you – would have, if Spock hadn't been able to peel him off in time."

"Spock…what?" Flabbergasted for the second time in as many minutes, he can't do anything but stare up at Bones with surprise clear on his face.

"The damn Vulcan was the only one strong enough to pull that Quakel off you in time. It's a good thing he was there – or you wouldn't be here." The doctor is surly and gruff with his comment, clearly put out that he has to compliment the Vulcan on anything.

Risking it, he brings up a subject he's been tiptoeing around, wanting to fix the rift between his two friends. "Doesn't that make up for marooning me on Delta Vega?"

A grunt, and a resigned shrug. "It's a start, kid. But I can't forgive him as easily as you did – which I still don't understand."

"He was doing what he thought was best," comes his easy response, and he gives his own shrug. He's tried, but how can he explain to his friend, who just doesn't seem to understand? Spock knew, as Kirk knew, that if he had stayed on the ship, he would have done everything in his power to divert their course. He can't blame Spock for denying him that opportunity.

With a shake of his head, Bones is patting Kirk on the arm once again, glancing up at the device that drips fluid directly into Kirk's veins. "I've got a report to write, so I'll be leaving you alone now. Behave yourself with my nurses, or I'll be back with a hypo to make sure you do.

"That damn hobgoblin should be up after his shift is complete to brief you on all the details."

Kirk nods, not knowing quite what to say. A final grunt, and then his friend is gone, leaving him alone, unable to go anywhere and with nothing to do but think.

Spock saved his life.

The thought gives him a warm feeling. The Vulcan thinks enough of him to risk himself, saving Kirk. He cares.

And then he has a sobering thought, as he tells his confusing emotions to leave him alone – it must be the meds talking. Spock cares because they're friends, because Kirk is his commanding officer who his first officer is sworn to protect. It's nothing more, nothing less. A logical action.

If he were to admit to the Vulcan that he's attracted to him, it would wreck the amity he's tried so hard to build. He has the promise of a friendship of epic proportions, and if anyone would know, it's Spock's alternate self. He doesn't want to destroy the possibility of that occurring.

He sighs to himself, sinking further into the bed and stares, unseeing, at the wall containing the monitoring equipment. He listens to their soft beeps and whirs, trying to ignore the fact that he's impatiently waiting to see a certain face, as the minutes drag painfully along.

(*)

A low voice awakens him from his light nap and he wonders momentarily how long he's been asleep. He keeps his eyes closed as a crease appears between his brows, focusing on the words and letting the deep tone travel through him.

"I am here to speak with the Captain. Is he capable of receiving visitors?"

"Of course that's why you're here, you overgrown elf!" retorts Bones in a gruff voice. "You told me before you left, remember?"

"There is no fault in my memory, Doctor."

A pregnant pause, wherein Kirk can almost hear Bones' eyebrow raising. And the answering curve of Spock's brow. Then a huff, and two sets of footsteps head in his direction.

Sick of being still, needing to move at least the tiniest bit, Kirk cracks open his eyes and lifts himself up onto his elbows, grinning at the stand-off between his two friends. His ribs, thankfully, are wrapped tightly and even though there are twinges of pain through the meds, nothing shifts.

The picture of grace, Spock walks with a measured, precise pace. His long lean form and broad shoulders combine to make him look strong and sleek. When Bones catches sight of his more-or-less upright position, he rushes over and raps Kirk – hard this time – on the head, and pushes him back down onto the bed as he checks the charts once more. The grin doesn't leave as Kirk keeps his eyes on Spock, rubbing absentmindedly at the bump that is sure to appear on his head.

Bones grunts, the scowl that was already present in Spock's company becoming even more apparent. "What're you trying to do, mess up your ribs even more? Stay _down_ until I say you can sit up!"

"Sorry, Bones," he mumbles, not feeling at all sorry but knowing better than to try to assert his authority while on the doctor's turf when he's at such a disadvantage.

The sheet is pulled back, as deft fingers check the bandaging around his chest, making sure nothing has shifted during the movement. It is one of Bones' endearing qualities that he prefers to do some things the old-fashioned way by feel, than trust his medical instruments.

Some of the pain created by the touch filters through the meds, and Kirk clenches his teeth to hold back a yelp. Trying to distract himself, he focuses on Spock's face.

"Who's taking care of Archie while I'm trapped in Bones' domain?" he asks, his voice sounding weird to his own ears. Hollow, and so scratchy.

"The animal will be well taken care of while you are indisposed," Spock replies, his eyes following Bones' practiced fingers checking the ribs beneath them. "And?" he probes further, hoping he gets the response he wants.

Spock's eyes eventually rise, and meet his own. "Since my quarters are adjacent to your own, it has been decided that I am to be responsible for his care for the interim."

Grinning at the brief flash of irritation he reads in the lines around Spock's eyes, he relaxes completely into the biobed. Releasing his breath in a long sigh of enjoyment earns him another rap on the head from Bones.

"Don't do that!" the doctor growls, and moves to pull the sheet up to cover his patient once again.

"No, leave it," Kirk says. "I'm hot as it is with all those bandages wrapped round me.

The doctor hesitates a moment and then drops it back to lie bunched at his waist. "Well. It looks like you didn't do any damage with your stupidity, but I'm threatening you. If you don't behave, I'm going to have to sedate you until those ribs have started healing. This isn't just a crack, kid – they're broken, and if you're not careful, one could puncture a lung."

Kirk grimaces, and resolves not to move for a while. "Okay, okay, I'll be good."

"You better." Making one last check of the biobed display, Bones turns to Spock. "You have five minutes, and then I'm kicking you out so he can continue to rest." With that, he disappears.

For the first time since his resolution earlier, Kirk is left alone with the object of his affections. Tongue-tied and suddenly self-conscious, he picks at the edge of the sheet. For his part, Spock stands silent by the side of the bed, hands clasped behind his back.

"I hear the treaty is back on with the Quakel," Kirk says, his voice raspy, not just from the throttling he received.

"Indeed." Spock proceeds to update him on the Chancellor's decision, repeating more or less what he'd heard from Bones. Once complete, he lapses back into silence.

"So, what did you think of my technique?"

"Your hand to hand combat skills are exceptional, for a Human," Spock replies. "And yet, still they did not serve you well enough."

"Oh," he manages to get out, a flush of surprise traveling across his cheeks and lodging in the tips of his ears. "I see."

A shrewd look appears in Spock's eyes, and he shifts subtly. "Perhaps I did not make myself clear, Captain. The fault does not lie with your capability in combat situations."

He freezes, not quite sure where the conversation is headed.

Spock pauses as well, his eyes traveling down to where the ribs are tightly wrapped, then continues, "I must apologize, Captain, for failing you as your first officer."

Indignant, Kirk shifts to rise from the bed once again. Stopped with the force of Spock's reminding glare, he sinks back into the bed with a glare of his own.

"What would possibly make you think you've failed me? I hear I have you to thank for my life."

"Thanks are illogical," Spock points out. "I was reminded that, as first officer, it is my responsibility to ensure my captain has all the tools necessary to perform the tasks required of him." The hands behind Spock's back have been clasped tightly, made evident by the hard lines of his forearms.

Thoroughly confused, Kirk looks up at the commander from his bed. Perhaps the painkillers are fogging his reasoning ability, but he cannot understand what Spock is getting at. "I'm sorry," he says eventually, "I just don't see how you can possibly have failed me."

"My captain must possess the knowledge of the most logical of fighting styles in any given situation," Spock replies, stiffly, his eyes focused on a point above Kirk's shoulder, "in order to defend his own life and assure that he will always return from away missions whole in body. I have neglected to train you in a vital element that will increase the probability of your survival in similar circumstances by thirty eight point three percent. Any opponents we encounter will not expect you to know Vulcan martial arts. Therefore, once you are deemed recovered enough by the doctor, I will commence your training in the art of _suus mahna_ …if you are willing to allow me that honor, even though you won the chess match."

Kirk almost had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from interrupting Spock's little speech, even though he thinks the Vulcan is being too hard on himself. Surprise at the final comment makes his eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. "I still don't see how me getting myself hurt is in any way your fault," he points out, his grin coming back full force. "But I'm definitely not going to turn that offer down!"

His self-consciousness completely forgotten, they go over some details of the fighting style. As they speak, Spock mentions that he also knows some other alien styles that Kirk may find useful, earning him yet another anticipatory grin.

Before either of them realize, the doctor is back, shooing Spock out of the room so Kirk can rest in empty silence.

* * *

The following day, Kirk is allowed to have visitors, as long as he behaves himself and stays flat on his back. The news has apparently filtered through the ship at a rapid rate, because he has a constant stream to keep him company. M'Benga, the only person Bones trusts to run his Sickbay when he's occupied, is left in charge of fielding the arrivals. Each of his bridge and senior officers is allowed to spend an extended amount of time keeping him company, and those of the regular crew that stop by to see how he's faring are able to pass on their well-wishes. Each person who arrives takes a long look at him, assuring themselves that he is alive and as well as can be expected, given he got his ass kicked by a being that Spock estimated was at least as strong as the average Vulcan. It is a very strange sensation for him to realize he means something to so many people. Even if it's just him as captain – though some certainly see him as a friend – these people _care_. And Kirk's floored – he's never experienced that before.

Each crew member shows their interest in his health in different ways. Scotty takes time out from his constant engineering upgrades to drop off a real bottle of Scotch – for them to "toast his health" when he recovers. Chekov and Sulu sacrifice their lunch break to spend it with him, playing hand after hand of Rummy. Spock…Spock had rigged up holo-chess, the ethereal 3D board seemingly hanging in the air between them, and they'd played several games before M'Benga had chased him out so Kirk could rest. The astonishment he feels at the realization that he has _friends_ is worth any amount of pain he went through to receive these precious moments of camaraderie.

It is the middle of the afternoon, and Uhura is the last to pay her captain a visit, ostensibly to give him the daily reports – but Kirk spots her eyeing his bruises with a degree of concern.

Because he's been good and his bones are responding well to the treatment he's receiving, the doctor adjusts the bed to allow him to partially sit up – with assistance. She sits beside him with a PADD on her lap, and then daintily crosses her arms over her chest.

They speak about ship matters for a while and Kirk begins to realize Uhura's a good source of 'unofficial' information. Then the subject turns to the mission and like Spock, she tells him she feels responsible for failing to pick up her captain's unintentional non-verbal cues that so outraged the Chancellor.

"You can't be blamed for an omission in someone else's dossier," Kirk points out mildly. "No matter how detailed they are, they can't cover everything."

"But I'm supposed to be an expert in all forms of communication," she argues, "and I failed to discover the source of their discomfort before it was too late."

"No-one could have known about the crest thing," he counters. "Stuff like that's bound to happen. Look at it this way, given how useless the universal translators have been on this mission, the treaty would be dead in the water without your awesome linguistic skills."

Uhura looks embarrassed at the praise and quickly changes the focus of their talk back to Kirk. "So, how are you holding up, Captain? Bored yet?" She lets a smile cross her lips.

He returns a grin, flexing his fingers and letting his eyes roam around the room. "I thought I was going to be, but then I've had so many visitors I haven't had the chance."

Her smile gets even larger, and he can detect a definite smugness in her expression. "Good. I took the liberty of putting through a ship-wide message – excluding Leo, of course – that you were allowed visitors today."

His mouth opens slightly in surprise, and he quickly snaps it shut. "You did what? You're incredible, Uhura!"

It looks as if she's about to preen herself like a cat, but then she freezes. "Just don't let Leo know what I did. He probably hates having so many people clogging up his Sickbay."

Kirk lets his own smile turn sly as he files away her name for the doctor for future ammunition against said doctor. "Promise! I don't want to make him any angrier, either – it's bad enough I'm a sitting duck in range of his hyposprays."

She lets loose with a laugh, the tinkling sound filling the Sickbay. He grins to himself, happy to see her cheerful again.

And so he tells her, "I'm glad you're doing better."

A glance, and a shrug. "I'm healing. I'd hoped, but…. Now I'm starting to feel that it might have been for the best. Better to have the relationship over now – instead of trying to pretend there's something there, when there isn't."

He nods, agreeing with the sentiment. Not that he's had a relationship quite like that, but he can understand. Then she glances at the chronometer above his head, and delicate frown lines appear between her arched brows.

"I have to get back to the Bridge to finish my reports before my shift is over." She makes as if to leave, then pauses just inside the privacy barrier, turning to glance back at him. He knows he looks horrible – a blanket of purple and green splotches coating most of his skin. While his ribs and ankles were the most roughly abused, the rest of him did get slammed into the ground with enough force to leave him badly bruised. It looks disgusting, but thanks to the constant drip of painkillers pouring through his system, he's not able to feel anything but a faint ache in his leg most of the time.

"Oh, and Kirk – heal quick. We miss you on the Bridge."

She leaves before he can respond, and he watches as she walks up to Bones. Getting his attention with a gentle touch on his arm, Uhura asks him a whispered question. Kirk can't hear through the space that separates them, but he can see that she gets a reply that is less harried and angry than Bones typically gives. Reassured by whatever response she receives, Uhura leaves the Sickbay, and Bones continues his myriad duties.

Kirk is being eaten alive by his curiosity, but there's nothing he can do to get Bones' attention and satiate it. His hand reaches automatically for the warm form that should be resting against his side, but Archie is confined to his quarters and being taken care of by a reluctant Vulcan.

So instead he lets out a sigh and, picking up his PADD, begins reading the lighthearted novel Bones recommended to stave off boredom when his crew isn't around to keep him company.

* * *

The wheels, he finds, run incredibly smoothly along the corridors of his ship. So smoothly, in fact, that he only has to expend a limited amount of energy to continue his forward momentum.

His fingers hover over the handrims; the act of wheeling himself is way more fun than using the built-in power drive. Not that he would ever admit that to Bones. He also finds a secret satisfaction in the fact that the chair reminds him of the one used by Pike the last time Kirk saw him – during the ceremony where he was officially given captaincy of the _Enterprise_. Then, just to prove he can, he manipulates the wheels in a quick jerking motion, popping the front two off the floor while continuing to roll down the corridor.

Spock, walking beside him, does nothing but raise an eyebrow. A grin appears on Kirk's face as he drops the wheels back down and works the handrims for a moment to regain his speed.

They are heading to the transporter room. After four tortuous days, Bones finally released him from sickbay and cleared him for light duty – which essentially means he's allowed to go negotiate with the Quakel, some paperwork, and that's it. The bruises have mostly faded from his skin, the regenerators doing their work well. But he is still far from whole; his broken ribs are still carefully wrapped, and his leg is contained in a plasticast. Even with the remaining injuries, he is excited to finally be doing something – but after screwing up so spectacularly on the first day, he feels a sense of trepidation. This is his first – hopefully, of many – diplomatic assignments, and there is much at risk if he fails to get this dilithium trade agreement.

But he refuses to dwell, instead plastering on his customary grin and joking with the crew members they encounter on their way to the transporter room. Uhura joins them on the pad, stationing herself on the left, and giving Kirk a quick squeeze on the shoulder.

He gives her a real smile in response, and then gives the command to energize.

A security detail awaits them on the planet, along with a set of Quakel dignitaries. Kirk tenses immediately when he sees the Chancellor is among them – his presence is expected, but he can't anticipate how their interactions will go.

Keeping his hands carefully folded in his lap, he greets the gathered Quakel with a few words he's practiced during his time trapped in sickbay, earning him what appears to be an appreciative eye-wave from the dignitaries.

The Chancellor steps forward, separating himself from the group and faces Kirk directly, saying something the universal translators completely fail to parse.

Kirk has to wait, frustrated and impatient, as Uhura explains he's using the archaic form of their language he used the night of the duel and gets clarification in the normal tongue before translating effectively.

"He is saying that they are honored by your presence. That you fought like a devil possessed, and they recognize your bravery and your courage." Then she pauses, going over the words once again in her head before letting them free. "They are awed by your arrival today. Your injuries are obvious, and yet you have no fear of showing your weakness to other strong males."

Then a smile breaks out on her face, as she whispers the last bit. "They want, more than ever, to be admitted into the Federation. I think that Starfleet made the right choice in choosing you for this mission, Captain," she tells him sincerely, earning herself a sidelong glance from Spock.

For his part, Kirk is stunned, dumbfounded. One moment he's cut to the bone at her words, knowing that Starfleet never intended him to be here. And in the next heartbeat his spirit is soaring, because he _knows_ what he's done, the Quakel's words laying it out clear as day.

He has gone a long way to proving to the Admiralty that they _must_ trust him and his crew. That they can handle anything that comes their way, that Nero was not just a fluke – that he belongs in the Captain's chair.

His grin is big enough to split his face in two, and he replies in the Quakel's own language, "I, too, am honored to be in your presence."

He can't help but pop the two front wheels of the wheelchair off the ground, joyous too at Uhura's acknowledgement. Movement is an integral part of his being, and the restrictions of the wheelchair make an itch beneath his skin, but he continues, "I have never met such a worthy opponent, and look forward to our negotiation process."

The Chancellor gives a series of satisfied clicks, which Uhura readily translates – even though for the most part Kirk doesn't need it any more.

"Shall we proceed, then?"

* * *

It's a tangled process, and just because they now have mutual respect for each other does not mean that it will go smoothly. He knows what Starfleet expects, and he knows what _he_ wants to gain with the contracts, and so he fights for all that he's worth.

It's strange, this fighting without fighting. Shifting, calculating, a give and take that he dives into for the first time, and finds he has a keen aptitude for. It's perhaps not so surprising given he was top of his tactical skills class and negotiating is all about tactics. Instead of ships and photorps, he's battling with words, sharp glances and postulating. It gives him a high almost comparable to the one he gets from _fast_ , but this one is entirely internal.

The negotiations carry on for so many days, stretching his nerves thin with the work, that he's out of the wheelchair before it ends – which in itself is a cause for private celebration with a glass or two of the scotch Scotty gave him.

He's amazed at how invaluable both Spock and Uhura prove to be, providing insights he would have missed when they take a moment for whispered conversation. They're priceless, these officers of his. Pride in them almost eclipses pride in himself, when the negotiations finally finish.

He won.

The signed hard copy of the trade agreement is rolled carefully and placed into a tube which he grasps carefully in his hand. The contract they brokered is better for both sides, better even than where his expectations had been set.

Kirk is elated, his cocky grin shining from his eyes as he says his farewells to the Quakel and beams back to the ship – thankfully, for the last time.

Walking to the lift that will carry them up to the Bridge, his senior officers at his side, he can't help but grin like a fool. A flash of a wish that the cane isn't required, as he still feels ridiculous no matter how much Bones protests it's a necessity. But his lower leg is still encased in a cast, and he needs the help to move comfortably and at a decent pace.

He catches Spock glancing at him, and doesn't try to hide the fool's grin as he clumps gamely forward. The Vulcan's eyes shift from him, to Uhura, and back again.

"I agree with your earlier assessment of the Captain's abilities, Lieutenant," he says out of nowhere, causing the other two to pause.

Running his hand through his hair, Kirk ducks his head to hide the blush ghosting his cheeks. Uhura giggles at his reaction, her tinkling laugh now filling the hallway and turning stares in their direction.

He could very much love these people, if they let him.

* * *

With a sense of anticipation, Kirk swiftly changes into a loose pair of sweatpants and a tank top, and then makes his way to the ship's gym. It's been a week and a half since he lost the cast and was allowed to walk around his own ship without his cane, and _finally_ Bones has given him permission to start his training with Spock. There's still residual tenderness in his leg and his ribcage, but the scans show his bones have knitted together well. There has been no undue soreness or complications. He has been told in no uncertain terms that he's not allowed to do any throws, or anything too strenuous that will upset the healing bones. And much to his chagrin, those exact orders were repeated to Spock as well.

Not that he blames Bones for not trusting him, exactly; it's just… rather humiliating to have his best friend play nursemaid. He should be used to it by now, but Kirk can't get around the fact that it's _Spock_ and he doesn't want the Vulcan getting that kind of impression of him.

With a sigh, he runs his hands through his hair, pausing outside the exercise room they've booked. They've reserved the room for this time every day this week. And when the lessons are finished, Spock has promised they'll meet in the rec room for their daily chess game.

"Captain?" Spock's voice comes from behind him with no warning footsteps beforehand. "Why are you observing the door? Is it malfunctioning?"

Jerked out of his reflection, Kirk whips around – while trying to wipe the guilty expression off his face. "Ahhh." He tries to think quickly, but knows the answer that comes out sounds foolish. "No, it's fine."

"Then why are we presently in the corridor, and not inside the exercise facility?"

He blinks his eyes, to clear his mind of the image of Spock in his form-fitting exercise garment. There isn't much left to the imagination, and the clothes highlight the hard lines of his body beautifully. "I don't know," he murmurs, having to pull the words out, as he is overcome by the completely irrelevant thought that his first officer should never be allowed to dress completely in black, as it compliments the shading of his pale skin perfectly, making him look gorgeous. That would likely cause an even greater proportion of his crew to think his first officer's hot than already do now and, when it came to Spock, he doesn't care to share. He stops that line of thinking with an effort – this is turning out to be more difficult than he expected, but he pushes the feelings down.

Spock gives him a curious look, his eyebrow raised just a fraction of an inch, before preceding Kirk into the room. Kirk can't resist the opportunity, and glances down – unsurprised that Spock's ass is as firm as the rest of him.

Thankfully, when he reaches the center of the exercise mats, Spock turns to face Kirk. The mats feel good, and familiar under Kirk's bare feet, and he grounds himself in the processes of combat. This is something he knows, something he's good at.

"After considering the dictates sent down by Doctor McCoy, I find it fortuitous that the first lessons taught to younglings do not involve any extreme movement, or attacks to the trunk." Spock begins, standing at ease with his hands loose and ready at his sides. "We are instead focusing on some simple holds used to manipulate an opponent, and several basic punches and kicks I believe you have already mastered."

Kirk nods, "Makes sense." He chafes a little at being taught things that Vulcan children know as soon as they learn how to toddle, but keeps it to himself. He knows he has to have a good foundation before he can start to progress, and just hopes that – per his usual abilities – that progress will come quickly.

"Before we begin, I must inform you that at the first indication of pain you should tap your leg, or the mat if on the ground; this makes me aware that the move is working."

"Got it," Kirk replies, confident – as this is also standard procedure. He shifts into a loose stance, preparing for Spock's first move.

Spock glances down as he takes two deliberate steps forward, moving well inside his comfort zone. He stops with his feet slightly apart, centered, and holds out his right arm.

"Please use your left hand to grasp my wrist," he says, his eyes trained on Kirk's face.

Kirk reaches out to follow his instructions, and then reconsiders, pulling his hand back and fisting it at his side.

The faint appearance of crease lines spring to life between Spock's arched eyebrows, as a slight frown appears. "Why do you hesitate?"

Kirk grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away as he replies, "I'm sorry, Spock, I probably should have thought of this sooner. I know you don't like being touched and I know why. If imposing on your touch telepathy is the price for learning this technique, I'm gonna have to decline."

A tilt of the head, noticeably to the side, as Kirk becomes the subject of intense regard. "Are you operating under the belief that I have no control over my body's reactions, and that I am incapable of so simple a thing as a telepathic shield? I would hardly be able to live among Humans if I were not able to protect myself from their constant contact, both deliberate and inadvertent."

"Oh," Kirk says in reaction, the explanation obvious when brought to his attention.

"While your consideration and respect for my preferences is noted, in this instance it is not required to observe the rules of Vulcan etiquette." Spock pauses, then adds, "For clarification, if any other situation comes up that dictates physical contact would be requisite, then do not hesitate to initiate it. It is simply casual touches that are unwelcome."

He can certainly see the sense in Spock's words. Reaching out, he firmly grasps Spock's wrist and waits. He's amazed at how hot the soft skin is to the touch, the contact sending a delicious shiver up his arm.

And then Spock is moving, explaining as his body flows in graceful motion, "In beings with upper limbs, this is the weakest part of their grip. Grasping here and twisting your arm in such a way breaks it without any effort on your part."

And his hand is suddenly no longer under his control, instead firmly in the grip of Spock's left hand, as the Vulcan rotates around and to the side. With the rotation, Spock bends Kirk down, forcing his head towards the mat. His right hand is bladed and placed above Kirk's elbow, and he begins applying pressure while his lecture continues. "Once here, it is easy to see how a judicious application of force with the edge of this hand can incapacitate and even cripple your opponent."

The pressure stops at a certain threshold, and Kirk looks back over his shoulder, confused that there is not yet any pain. His fingers are ready to tap against his thigh, but he can't until it actually hurts.

"Why did you stop?"

A real furrow springs to life between Spock's brows, as he replies, "I know the exact amount of pressure required to elicit a response from a Human in this position without doing any serious damage. I have met that threshold. Why are you not affected as you should be?"

An answering frown appears on Kirk's face in response, before he remembers something. "Oh, that's right! I'm double jointed in my elbows. I think you just have to go a little further for it to work."

Confusion flashes in Spock's eyes as more pressure is slowly applied to his elbow. Once it hits the point where it actually hurts Kirk, he gives the required signal against his thigh.

Satisfied, Spock holds it for a moment more so Kirk can remember the position, and then releases him.

An indignant question is asked. "In what manner are your joints 'double'?"

Kirk laughs. "The name's a misnomer – it's just a term used to describe hypermobility."

"What purpose could such an ability serve?"

Kirk shrugs, and grins at the Vulcan, "I'm not sure. Never bothered to find out, and as far as I can remember, it's never been useful for anything."

Spock looks at him long and hard before responding. "Captain James Tiberius Kirk, even your elbows are illogical. I must admit, I find myself fascinated as you continue to reveal aspects of your person."

The warmth suffusing him then is impossible to hide.


	17. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** I forgot to mention, last week. Any martial arts moves I am attributing to _suus manha_ are real moves. They come from the Korean martial art of Hapkido, which I studied for several years back in high school. Hapkido is very similar to Judo, and has many of the same moves. It's a lot of holds and throws…which means many, many opportunities for Kirk and Spock to touch ;)

**A/N:** I forgot to mention, last week. Any martial arts moves I am attributing to _suus manha_ are real moves. They come from the Korean martial art of Hapkido, which I studied for several years back in high school. Hapkido is very similar to Judo, and has many of the same moves. It's a lot of holds and throws…which means many, many opportunities for Kirk and Spock to touch ;)

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Five

* * *

**

"Nae there, lad, that wee piece fits in here," Scotty instructs, pointing with his sonic driver to the correct location. "Ye need a steady hand with the micro-optic drill."

Kirk grins at his friend as he carefully makes the necessary adjustments, his lap full of wiring and tools. The main communications console in engineering has been acting up for days, and since Kirk was gifted with some free time after his shift, he's volunteered to help the Scotsman make necessary repairs.

He's happy to have something to occupy his mind – the _Enterprise_ has been ordered to escort a modest cargo freighter, the _Kitimer_ , as they ferry supplies to Deep Space Station Eleven. The _Kitimer_ has made these runs for years, but recently they've been harassed by Strekkalan pirates, who ambush but rarely take lives, and who have stolen most of their cargo on the last several occasions. The entire time they've been with the _Kitimer_ , Kirk hasn't been able to stop being on edge; he's just waiting for the ball to drop.

"Ah dinnae, lad – ye say ye know yer machines, but ye cannae, if ye keep gettin the bloody circuits wrong!" The sting of the reprimand is lessened by the grin Scotty throws him.

Using a small laser welder to solder the last connection into place, Kirk leans back and gives Scotty a look. "You know as well as I do that you've made so many modifications to this thing it hardly resembles the original 'board."

The Scotsman gives the console a loving pat, before kneeling to put the panel back in place. "Aye, laddie, tha's true. A wee bit'o ingenuity went into this, if I do say so myself."

Kirk laughs aloud this time at his friend, slapping him on the back. "As if you're anything but ingenious – although I'm beginning to wonder since it's been acting up!"

Scotty opens his mouth to reply – but is interrupted by the red-alert klaxon blaring near their ears.

Kirk explodes to his feet and punches the comm. unit switch.

"Kirk to bridge. Report."

"Captain, three incoming ships have been picked up on long-range scanners," Spock responds, his voice coming through loud and clear. "They are, as yet, unidentified. No Federation ships are reported in the area."

Kirk has been expecting this and when he glances at his friend, he can see the naked worry in the engineer's eyes. "On my way. Kirk out."

He gives the Scot an attempt at a reassuring grin, and then dashes off towards the Bridge.

His feet fly as he runs towards the nearest turbolift, the adrenaline flowing through his veins oddly comforting. The _Enterprise_ has been tailing the _Kitimer_ , keeping right out of sensor range with hopes of luring the pirates into the open. His intention is, instead of their presence simply acting as a deterrent as requested by Starfleet, to capture the Strekkalan so they cannot harass any more ships. The entire time they've been escorting the _Kitimer_ he's been tense, waiting for this, and now that it's here, he can finally act and get rid of that bubble of anxious anticipation that's been hounding him for days.

The anticipation has been worse the last few hours, as both ships were required to drop out of warp so the cargo freighter could unload some supplies at a colony. The planet they arrived at is isolated, circumstances falling together to make this the perfect place for an ambush.

"Mr. Spock, report!" he calls as soon as the turbolift doors open, moving to his command chair as Spock calmly rises from it. The klaxon has been silenced, but the red lights continue to flash in warning.

"Sensors indicate that the starships are an amalgam of different parts – both Starfleet and otherwise," Spock replies, as he seats himself at his station. "The technology is not as advanced as that on the _Enterprise_ , and consequently our presence has not been detected. They possess enough fire power, if working in concert, to pose a threat to our ship. Every indication is that these are the pirates the _Kitimer_ has previously been ambushed by. Lieutenant Uhura is monitoring all frequencies, and will intercept any communications between the unknown vessels and the _Kitimer_."

Kirk grins at his first officer, letting a bit of a predatory glint into the smile. "Let me take a look." Leaning over the scanner, he studies the data, absorbing everything he can about the pirate ships in case it can be of use later. Once he's satisfied, he slips into his seat and a small part of him briefly notes it is still warm from when Spock was sitting in it. Turning back to the matter in hand, he focuses on the viewscreen that takes up most of the front wall.

"Put them on screen, Lieutenant, extreme magnification."

"Aye, Captain," Uhura responds, and they appear before him.

The three ships look vicious, as they circle the _Kitimer_ slowly. All four vessels stand out against the bright blue of the planet beneath them.

"Sir, one of the three unidentified vessels has begun communications with the _Kitimer_ ," Uhura states calmly, pressing the speaker further into her ear so she can hear clearly. "They're demanding the Federation vessel turn over all its cargo to avoid being damaged."

"Perfect!" Kirk crows, leaning forward in his excitement. "That's certainly enough to incriminate them. Now let's see if we can't get them to pay attention to us. Sulu, close in on the vessels – get a lock on, so we set off their sensors. Call battle stations."

Sulu turns with a grin. "Aye, aye Captain," he acknowledges. "Battle stations. All hands to battle stations. Battle stations. Battle stations. All decks acknowledge."

Kirk can feel Spock's eyes on him and rotates his chair, to find a quizzical look on his first officer's face. "Don't worry, Spock, I'm not intending to go in all guns blazing. But it doesn't hurt to be prepared. Besides," he grins, "it's good to practice the drills."

The ship picks up speed and Kirk can feel her hum increase through the soles of his feet.

"All decks acknowledge, Captain. All stations show green," Sulu reports.

"Chekov, energize main phasers, all weapons and shields to full power."

"All weapons and shields to full power, aye sair. Phaser control room and engineering, acknowledge." Kirk leans forward and waits, his body tense as a coiled spring. "Phaser control and engineering acknowledge sair. We are ready for zhem!"

The shields protective barrier, Kirk knows, will be visible as only a slight shimmer around them.

"Open hailing frequencies, Lieutenant."

"Tied in sir."

Kirk watches as the three ships loom larger on the viewscreen. "This is Captain James Kirk of the USS Enterprise. You are attacking a Federation vessel. Surrender immediately."

"Zhey're arming photon torpedoes," Chekov says excitedly.

"Evasive maneuvers!" Kirk orders, but Sulu is a breath before him as the _Enterprise_ neatly slips out of the incoming missiles' trajectory. He isn't surprised to see the ships turn their attention from the _Kitimer_ to the _Enterprise_. "Return fire at will, Mr. Chekov. Mr. Sulu, try to lead them away from the _Kitimer._ Make sure you keep their attention."

"What if zhey don't follow, Keptan?" Chekov asks, his eyes worried as he focuses on the targets on the screen before him.

"They'll follow – they know they're no match for our lady if they try to take us on one at a time."

There's a tense silence from the crew on the Bridge as Sulu outmaneuvers the smaller ships with ease, their photon torpedoes going wide of their mark. With his expert hands at the helm, the _Enterprise_ is able to perform maneuvers a ship of their size shouldn't be able to pull off. His mind working at a mile a minute, Kirk comes up with and discards possible strategies – peaceful surrender and negotiations were blown out of the water the instant the Strekkalan ships fired on the _Enterprise_ , and their impressive shields and weapons arrays make it hard for the Federation vessel to take them out by herself.

As the ship suddenly dips steeply downward, following a graceful arc in order to avoid another barrage of fire, the local star – a red giant – comes into view on the screen before them and an idea bursts fully formed into his mind.

"Sulu, take us as close to the sun as you can without damaging our shields," he orders, intent and confident as his plan solidifies in his mind.

"Captain?" the helmsman asks, while he changes course to angle at the sun – but taking an indirect route to avoid the photorps still being fired at their stern. Despite his best effort, the course change meant evasive maneuvers momentarily took second place and one of the ships scores a direct hit, rattling them all in their seats.

"Number three deflector shield strength has dropped to eighty five percent," Spock calmly reports. "Hull damage on decks nine through eleven. Minor injuries reported on all decks."

Kirk spins his seat to face his first officer. "Get engineering on that shield. Sulu, I want you to get close enough for the radiation to burn their shields away, but still leave ours intact. I recognize the signature of those shield arrays – and they're especially susceptible to that type of radiation."

With his goal in mind, Sulu's evasions take on purpose – the starship dodging and diving as he makes his way to the star shining before them. Chekov, intent on the screen at his station, makes sure their tails are kept busy with a blanket of phaser fire.

"What the hell's going on up there?" the doctor's voice comes through loud and clear, his tone carrying both worry and anger. "Is my sickbay going to be inundated with casualties?"

Kirk knows that if they weren't at battle stations, his friend would be up on the bridge, probably tearing his hair out at what they are doing – but the drill means he has to remain in the Sickbay.

"Just a bit of a face-off, Bones," he says, deliberately downplaying the situation, unable to hold back a grin. It is for moments like this, pitting his wits against the enemy, that persuaded him to join StarFleet in the first place. "Our friends are about to surrender."

"I'll hold you to that, Jim. Any more knocks and you're buying me drinks for the night the next shoreleave we have," he responds gruffly and cuts the connection, causing Kirk to smile at the way his friend expresses his concern for the well-being of the crew.

He hasn't taken his eyes off the screen and yet it seems as though they've suddenly arrived – the star filling the whole viewscreen, an angry red ball of light that sends out tongues of flame trying to kiss their hull. Instead of coming in from the side, Sulu is going full on towards the star; a spike of fear flares inside Kirk, increasing the flow of adrenaline already coursing through his system.

"Captain," Spock's voice cuts in. "Hull temperature is now at ten thousand degrees C."

"Understood, Mr. Spock."

"Scott to Cap'n Kirk," comes the exasperated voice of the chief engineer echoing around the bridge. "What in blue blazes are ye doin'? The ship cannae take much more o' this. Hull temperature's rising to critical levels and I dinnae know what Sulu was pulling, but he's almost bent the poor wee ship out o' shape!"

"Not now, Scotty. We're trying to keep in one piece up here. Spock's keeping an eye on things. Kirk out. Chekov," he says leaning forward, his attention back on the battle, "keep a watch on their ships – the moment their shields go down, I want our weapons ready to take out their propulsion systems if necessary."

"Aye, Keptan," comes the reply, the young man's voice strong despite the situation.

Three seconds, four, Kirk counts off in his head as the star looms even closer. The instant the shields flicker, indicating they're about to give out, the helmsman carries out another maneuver that Kirk would think crazy if it were anyone but Sulu.

He drops engine power, goes into full-reverse thrust which effectively brings them to a hard stop; and then, applying full forward thrust again, pulls the hull upwards to execute a backward roll, spinning the ship on an invisible axis, turning them almost on a dime. As soon as the _Enterprise_ has flipped 180 degrees, he cuts the engines completely – and suddenly they are facing the enemy ships.

"Arm photon torpedoes and lock onto targets," Kirk orders.

"Torpedoes locked on, Keptan!" Chekov acknowledges, his hands paused over the controls at his station.

"Sir, hull temperature is now at twelve thousand degrees C," Spock reports. "Radiation level approaching hazardous, nearing ten thousand rads."

"How long can we maintain our position?" he asks.

"Approximately seven point two four minutes, Captain, before we reach critical levels."

Kirk watches with grim satisfaction as the three pirate ships attempt to stop – not nearly as clean and precise a maneuver as Sulu's – their shields flickering and going out much further from the star.

"Sulu, move us to a safer distance from the star – let's get up close and personal with them. Uhura, reopen that channel with our new friends. I think they're ready to negotiate surrender now." He's unable and unwilling to keep the pride and cockiness out of his tone.

* * *

One hundred boxes of hypos. Dozens and dozens and dozens of gauze rolls. The list goes on and on – and this is only one out of an entire stack of supply lists he's required to go over. He wishes he didn't have to sign off everything himself, given Bones and Spock have already checked it through. He gets the powers-that-be want him to learn as much as he can, understand how each section of his ship works, how they operate, what their needs are. He's only studied this in theory and not in that much detail as the specifics of departmental requirements vary so much between classes of ship. Plus, he's in charge of the budget and half the officers responsible for their sections, like Bones, are as inexperienced as he is. So, he has to keep a close watch, at least to start with. The Admiralty won't just be checking up on how he fares with his missions, but also his efficiency in the day to day running of the Enterprise. But does he really need to know that engineering are requesting an isotilic converter and two monofilament stimulators? Or that facilities placed an order for 1000 packs of sanitation naps – toilet paper? It's that kind of thing that's bogging him down, because he doesn't know what half the stuff is that's being requisitioned, and he feels he should. Looking things up just adds to the time it's taking him to sign the req requests off.

It wouldn't be so bad if the supplies and requisitions lists are the only paperwork still requiring his attention. After they'd safely delivered the _Kitimer_ and the three Strekkalan ships they towed to Deep Space Station 11, beaming the captured crew direct from the brig to a detention center on the space station, Kirk had hoped he'd have a moment to breathe on the way to their next destination. But while they're flying through warp, and everyone else is busy at their stations, he's left to tackle the piles and piles of paperwork that are overwhelming him, like departmental reports, personnel reports and issues, fuel status and other engineering reports – not to mention the reports generated by their little incursion with the space pirates, which include his own report, Spock's report, damage and repair reports, weapons status reports – and then there's all the meetings he seems to be required to attend. The latter included a debrief with Admiral Pike in which he formally got his knuckles rapped for failing to follow orders – they were supposed to escort and deter, and then privately congratulated by Chris for a job well done in helping rid the sector of an issue that had been plaguing them for too long.

He lets out a sigh, running his hand through his hair. Feeling eyes upon him, he glances up and into the questioning eyes of Sulu. Kirk grins, waving off his friend's concern, and goes back to staring at the list on his PADD.

The lines of text waver in front of his tired eyes, and a spike of annoyance floods through him at his own inability to absorb it all. He needs to get away, at least for a moment – a change is as good as rest and he'll be able to come back to it with renewed energy. Then a thought strikes him – Spock had some line experience before teaching at the Academy; maybe he can give him some pointers on how to deal with it all.

Standing, he walks towards a door recessed into the wall. "Mr. Spock, can I see you in my ready room for a moment?"

"Certainly, Captain," comes the easy reply, the Vulcan's voice as smooth as always.

"Mr. Sulu, you have the conn," Kirk orders, and from the corner of his eye he registers the movement of his first officer following him.

As soon as the door is closed behind Spock, Kirk sinks into the chair behind his desk and digs his fingers into the tight muscles at the back of his neck. He takes a moment to just enjoy this alone-time with his first officer – what with one thing and another, they've spent precious little time together in the last week, and he's missed it. As he gathers his thoughts and tries to tamp down his frustration, he is unaware of the lengthening silence.

"What is it you wished to discuss with me, Captain?" Spock prompts.

Kirk eyes him standing in his customary pose – parade rest, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He shakes his head. "This is ridiculous, Spock. Why are they making me sign off on every single thing? Is my authorization _really_ needed for…" he picks up his PADD and opens the first document on the list, "…every time Bones places an order for tongue depressors?" He lets the words slip out, afraid for only a moment of letting his first officer know how frustrated he's feeling. He stares at the PADD unseeingly. "I'm overwhelmed here, and I can't handle it all. Is there anything I can do to reduce this load, at least for the time being? How do other captains handle it?"

Silence drags on long enough for Kirk to raise his eyes and gaze at the Vulcan. He doesn't want Spock to ever feel like he's incapable of doing his job – he just needs some time to get a handle on all his new responsibilities.

The Vulcan returns his gaze, calmly and intently, his head tilted slightly to the side. "This is not unexpected, Captain," he begins, his voice – thankfully – not holding any hints of scorn or contempt. "I am aware that, due to the unprecedented nature of your promotion, you did not receive the training you would had you taken the standard route and time to reach your current position. Your performance thus far would suggest this will not adversely affect your command decisions; however, it has ill prepared you to deal with the minutiae of the captain's duties."

Kirk's shoulders shrug as he contemplates Spock's words, feeling warmth suffuse him at the inference that Spock approves of his command style. Coming from his Vulcan first officer, that's a great compliment. Coming from Spock, his friend, confers on it a whole other layer of meaning. What Spock says about his rapid promotion makes sense. He's been so insanely busy, it's ironically meant he hasn't had time to think of it in that context before and it eases some of the discontent that's been festering inside as the stacks of PADDs got larger.

"I was also prepared with a contingency, should you have need of assistance," the Vulcan continues. "I am willing to offer my assistance with your administrative duties, with what paperwork it is possible for the first officer's position to take on. Until, of course, such a time as you are able to resume the entirety once again."

And some of that tension that's been tightening the knots in his neck relaxes, letting Kirk breathe a little easier once again. He knows that most of the paperwork will require his input – there are things that only the captain can sign off on – but if Spock can take some of the more mundane things, like the supplies and requisition lists, it would make things infinitely easier for him.

A flood of feelings hit him at his first officer's offer: relief, gratitude, and something else he doesn't have time right now to analyze, to do with the fact that Spock cares enough to actually spend time not only considering the possibility this might happen, but took the time to come up with a contingency to deal with it that involved increasing his own workload. "That would be…" he starts, his voice trailing off as he's unable to find the exact words. Then tries again after a moment, "Thank you, Spock."

"Your thanks are unnecessary, Captain. I am simply doing all that is necessary to assist you in my role as first officer."

He lets himself grin, a real one this time, at Spock's refusal of gratitude and his denial that he was motivated by anything more than duty.

"Yeah, I know – but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate it, just the same."

(*)

After several weeks in space, the entertainments available in the rec rooms are already wearing thin. Finding himself with some free time when his paperwork was completed for the evening, Kirk had to get a little…creative…to come up with a solution to this newest challenge. It took a little finagling to get the necessary materials, but he was able to find them.

His grin stretches his cheeks wide, as he congratulates himself on his ingenuity.

"Just one more fold, and…there!" he says, slipping the last edge of paper into the form. Satisfied, he holds up his creation for inspection.

Sulu looks over the object with a critical eye, nodding his appreciation. Chekov stares at it skeptically, not quite sure what to make of it.

"And how is zhis a game, Keptan? It is a folded piece of paper, yes?" Chekov complains, still not able to see the magic that is happening in front of his eyes.

Undaunted, Kirk shrugs off Chekov's comment. "Just wait, Chekov! It's awesome, I promise!"

With that commendation, there's nothing left to do but demonstrate. Sulu hurries to the other end of the table, kneeling with his fingers placed properly. Kirk lines himself up squarely on their side, grasping the folded piece of paper in an expert grip.

Eyeballing distance and expected trajectory, he gives the piece of paper a hard fling with his other hand. Flying end over end, it sails through the goal posts of Sulu's fingers.

Kirk and Sulu break out into a spontaneous cheer, causing the rest of the crew sprinkled throughout the rec room to give them curious looks. Once the crew sees what they're doing, they return to their own activities with a collective, indulgent sigh.

Chekov, on the other hand, is staring at the spot Sulu's goal was just a moment before, and they can see the gears working inside his brain. It only takes a moment before he grins to match Kirk.

"I see! Zhis is glorious! Wonderful! You are a genius, Keptan!" Chekov cries, before taking his turn at the end of the table. He mimics Sulu's goal posts, and waits expectantly as the helmsman retrieves the "ball" from the floor.

All seriousness, Sulu kneels and focuses on the trajectory, lining up his little paper ball with the space between Chekov's fingers. Lets fly with his flick – and the ball sails wide of the target.

A sheepish smile lights up his face, as he makes way for Kirk's turn as goalie.

"Almost had it there, Sulu! _So close!_ " Kirk teases, punching the pilot in the shoulder before getting into position.

"Ha ha, very funny!" Sulu responds, as he punches lightly back.

As soon as the goal is ready, Chekov kneels at his end of the table. Kirk can see the Russian's lips moving as he mumbles something to himself, and Kirk catches the word "parabola" before the low voice turns into a jumble.

"Hey!" Kirk calls over, his grin still present, "No cheating with your crazy physics skills!"

The flow of calculations stop, as the genius blinks at his captain. "But zhey help! How am I supposed to reach zhe target without zhem?"

Kirk spreads his arms wide as he shrugs, "You eyeball it! The whole point of the game is the thrill. Don't take that from it with…math." He gives a mock shiver to illustrate his point.

And then he notices Sulu shifting uncomfortably, and turns to eye his other friend with a mock-frown on his face. Sulu catches him looking, and throws his hands up in the air in frustration.

"All right, fine! I won't use physics either," he agrees, and then mumbles, "It's not like it helped earlier, anyway."

This is what happens when you're surrounded by geniuses. A slow smile replaces the frown, and he slaps Sulu on the back. "That's the spirit!"

Satisfied, Kirk gets back into position, and watches Chekov line up his shot without assistance. Adorable in his concentration, the Russian sticks his tongue out the corner of his mouth as he focuses.

With a hard flick, the youngest member of their trio lets the paper ball fly. The little ball soars easily through the goal posts of Kirk's fingers, and Chekov gasps in surprise at his own skill.

All three friends erupt in yet another spontaneous cheer, and then happily continue their game. Sometimes, Kirk realizes, it's the little things.

* * *

It's been three weeks since he's been practicing _suus manha_ in earnest, and they've progressed to the more advanced moves very quickly – much to Kirk's relief. The session they just had made him work up a sweat. While he's happy that he got that much of a workout, it also means he has to stop by his quarters and take a quick shower before meeting Spock in the rec room at 20:00 for their chess game.

At 19:50, he's standing in his bathroom toweling himself dry, when an unexpected visitor presses the door chime, the action opening up an automatic two-way intercom.

"Who is it?" he asks, hoping fervently that whoever it is isn't going to delay, or worse, cause him to cancel his chess time with his first officer. It wouldn't be the first time – a captain is never really off-duty.

The voice that comes over the comm. in a low tone sounds wonderful. "Spock here, Captain. I wished to discuss a matter with you privately, prior to the start of our match in the recreation room."

"Sure. Come on in," he replies immediately, pressing the button that will open the door to his quarters. He also cracks open the door to the bathroom, so he can talk to his guest while he's getting dressed.

Once he hears footsteps enter, and the soft swish of the door closing, he asks, "Sorry Spock, I'm just out of the shower. What did you wanna talk about?" He doesn't bother raising his voice, knowing the Vulcan will easily be able to hear him – even though the towel muffles his voice as he dries his hair.

"It is in regards to Dr. McCoy's behavior. I had assumed his attitude towards me had improved since the incident on Quakel, but it appears the opposite has occurred. My monthly physical took place prior to our practice. The doctor took the opportunity to invent new, pejorative terms to describe my person."

Kirk smiles to himself, a safe action because the Vulcan cannot see it. "That's just the way Bones is, Spock. He doesn't mean anything by it, and…"

He pauses to pull on a fresh pair of sweats, shivering as a trickle of water travels down the back of his neck – which tells him he hasn't spent enough time drying his hair. He grabs an extra towel on his way out the bathroom door and, flopping it over his head, he rubs vigorously to get the last of the water out. He grins, knowing how his hair will look. "…you should hear some of the things he's called me when he's on a roll," he adds, continuing his train of thought. "They make 'Hobgoblin' sound like an endearing pet name."

When his comment doesn't get an immediate response, he pulls the towel down and looks around his room for Spock. Unsurprisingly, the puppy is seated at the Vulcan's feet, staring expectantly up at Spock who is still in the 'public' area of Kirk's living quarters, over by the desk. He is gazing intently at something he is holding.

Kirk does not need to see the familiar frame to know what fascinates the Vulcan so. All he has to do is close his eyes, and he can see the loop of motion, captured by what was state of the art technology for the time. It is a holovid of his father – so young and full of hope, and happiness – who is reaching down and grasping his small son's hand, the wind tousling their hair. Then they both look up, grinning, at the camera – his father's blue eyes so piercing and bright, so full of _love,_ it's unmistakable. There's a cherry red convertible behind them, and the dusty fields of Iowa disappear into the distance.

So engrossed by what he sees, it seems to take Spock a moment to recognize that Kirk is in the room, but when he does his eyes raise to Kirk's face – then return to the picture.

"The familial resemblance is unmistakable. As would be expected, you display several physical traits inherited from him – not the least of which is your distinctive eye coloration."

Then Kirk watches as the Vulcan's eyes flick around the room. "There is no likeness of your mother on display," he says, settling his gaze back on Kirk. "I am curious – are there any available?"

He feels tense, uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going, preferring to stick to the safe territory of Bones' creative insults. A part of him wants to open up a bit more to Spock, but there's so much emotion attached to it, he finds himself unwilling, out of habit, to share to that degree.

"My mom and I don't have…the best of relationships," he replies, running his hand through his damp hair. "Look, I don't really feel like talking about it, okay?"

Spock responds with a raised eyebrow, with what Kirk can tell is curiosity – but respecting his privacy, the Vulcan lets the subject drop. "I understand." Then apparently sensing Kirk's altered mood he adds, "I shall take my leave of you and will set up the chess board in rec room three."

Kirk no longer feels like being surrounded by people. "Hey, since you're already here, would you be opposed to holding the chess game in my quarters instead?" he asks hopefully.

Spock nods in response, "I would not be averse to the change of venue."

"Great." Without another word, he picks up his own packed chessboard and moves to the little table nestled into the corner of the room. He seats himself in one of the two chairs, and begins setting up the board – choosing white for himself as has become his habit. Archie, sensing the dampener on his mood, curls around his feet quietly.

The game progresses in silence for a while, Kirk not really in the mood to talk, and Spock respecting his wish for the privacy of his mind. There has been silence before during their games, when they are both deep in thought and wrapped in companionship. But this one is different – awkward and sensitive – at least for him, and he knows it's his own fault.

He thinks back to Spock's obvious curiosity regarding his mom. It's a matter of record that she continued to serve in Starfleet on deep-space missions following the death of her husband, so the Vulcan is likely aware she wasn't around much when he was growing up. He has to remind himself that this is Spock. He's not going to judge him either on the actions of his mother or himself because he's not like that. For the first time in his life he finds, surprisingly, that he _wants_ to share.

"It was decent in the beginning." he says out of the blue, not quite sure where this is going but, now that he's started, knowing he can't stop the thread of his thoughts.

"She wasn't around much," he continues, not looking up to meet the eyes he can feel watching him silently, intently. "But when she was, she'd try to make it feel like a family. When she was away we lived – my brother and me – with grandpa Tiberius, my dad's dad. At that time, her parents were living on Tar…" his breath hitched and he stopped for a moment, not willing to even name the place. "…on an off-world colony. At that point I was trying hard, wanting to make everyone happy. It still felt like a family, like I belonged."

In an attempt to avoid the eyes upon him, Kirk glances around the room. His focus alights on the picture frame, looking out of place on the desk surrounded by PADDs. It is the only personal touch in the whole room, which is otherwise occupied by regulation Starfleet furniture. No mementos on display, like there are in the other Humans' quarters. To keep mementos, you have to have memories you want to keep.

"That all disappeared the day that car did," he says, pointing with his chin at the picture. "Grandpa died and she remarried. She just wanted a babysitter, not a husband, and I think Frank could tell that she would never love him like she loved my dad. He resented that car because it reminded her of him. So he decided to sell it, and told my brother while he had me outside cleaning it up for its new owner.

"Sam didn't take the news well. He'd been there, toddling around dad's ankles while he restored it. And as long as it was there, I guess, he felt it was a connection to dad. But when he heard it was going, he couldn't handle Frank anymore, or anything. I heard the screaming, but…all I saw was Sam leaving me."

His eyes close, the chessgame forgotten, as he swallows hard, remembering the events which bring back all the raw, churning emotions of his childhood – as he knew they would.

"I tried to stop him," he continues when he's pushed down on the feelings of desertion the memory brings, "but he didn't listen. When he left, my world…shattered…" He takes a deep breath to fight back the sting of threatened tears. "…and I wasn't that little boy that believed he had a family any more – he took my innocence with him, 'cause he was the only family left who really loved me, the only one who made me feel like I belonged." He pauses again, collecting himself, finding it hard to talk about what he's kept locked up inside himself, buried deeply where the emotions couldn't touch him, for nearly fifteen years. He's never told anyone – not even Bones.

"The last thing he said to me was that he couldn't be a Kirk in that house. And I knew he was right. I knew I had to _be_ a Kirk." Then he returns Spock's gaze, looking back into those dark eyes that are just an arm's length away. "And Jim disappeared. Jim was weak and had never made anyone happy, including himself – but a Kirk had saved eight hundred people's lives. It's why no one gets to call me Jim, because he's gone. Even Bones only ever calls me 'kid' – when he's not calling me 'idiot', 'asshole' or a dozen other less than polite nicknames," he smiles wanly.

The enormity of what he just admitted filters through, and he coughs uncomfortably. Shrugging his shoulders, he lets out a self-depreciating chuckle. "Sorry, Spock. I know you weren't expecting that – and I don't know why it decided to come out," he admits, looking back down at the forgotten chess board.

Spock's shoulders shift minutely, in a motion that would be considered an answering shrug for the Vulcan. "No apology is necessary, Captain."

A flash of regret washes through Kirk that he'd just dumped all that on his friend. While he gave no outward sign, the Vulcan could not possibly be comfortable with all his emotional babble.

"So…I noticed you're spending quite a bit of your down time in the labs recently," he says, changing the subject to something both of them are much more comfortable with. "Has a specific project caught your interest?"

Spock raises a questioning eyebrow at him, but returns his attention to the chess game as he answers. "There is some fascinating investigative work being undertaken with some of the gelatinous lifeforms we harvested while on Quakel…."

* * *

Somehow, they arrive at one of the observation decks on the upper level. It's a small one, out of the way, that doesn't have the spectacular floor-to-ceiling viewport of the three ODs on the level below the bridge and so is often empty. But it serves their purpose well enough.

It seems like they end up at this observation deck more than anywhere else, and Kirk has even begun to think of it as 'theirs' – at least in his head. They rest against the railing that keeps them at a safe distance from the frigidly cold transparent tritanium windows, divided by the comfortable distance for one, as they stare out at the stars flashing by with such speed. They both know what they see is a simulated interpretation of what's out there that's rendered by the ship's powerful computer system; starfields aren't visible in warp, but the knowledge doesn't detract in any way from the beauty of it for either of them.

It's been a long, exhausting day, and their current mission isn't quite over with. All Kirk wants to do is pass out on his bed and sleep for three days straight – but first, Spock and he must iron out the details of the treaty they are mediating on Starfleet's behalf. The two warring species are finally willing to negotiate, and Kirk is trying to come up with terms that are beneficial to both sides.

He is coming to rely on Spock's insights, especially in cases like these – where his First's knowledge of interspecies ethics is invaluable. And what's even better – Spock never gives him cause to feel like an idiot for asking for advice. In fact, it sometimes seems, from the surprised tilt of an eyebrow, as if he is honored that he is being asked. Almost as if, in the past, others have not done so.

The thought rankles under his skin, but he soothes it with the knowledge that _he_ is not going to dismiss his First simply because of his heritage; the half-Vulcan who is far too beautiful for his own good.

Kirk is trying to pay attention to their conversation, he truly is – but he is exhausted, and sick to death of this topic. Of their own volition, his eyes keep straying to the line of Spock's jaw, the tips of his ears, and the dark, dark blue-black of his hair.

At the moment, Kirk's eyes are intent on the Vulcan's hands, folded and resting gently atop the railing. Even stilled and without motion, they are full of grace. Long and thin, with such delicate-looking bones… He remembers the heat of those hands when they've touched him in combat training – and the heat that radiates from Spock's body when he's close.

And he's reminded of something that happened earlier that day, during one of the quieter moments when the away team had been left on their own, while the two factions each withdrew to discuss Kirk's treaty proposals.

"Hey, Spock – how come Uhura's allowed to stand so close to you still?" he asks, the question coming completely out of nowhere. "I figured it'd make you uncomfortable."

The Vulcan raises an eyebrow at him in a suggestion of surprise, but he answers. "Being touch empaths, it was necessary for Vulcans to create strict guidelines regarding physical proximity. Therefore, we have 'boundaries of familiarity' – boundaries of distance that get progressively smaller as the relationship between individuals becomes more intimate. For instance, strangers are kept at the maximum distance, whereas bondmates may stand almost touching each other – or, oftentimes, actually touching in some small way.

"As a result, while most of the crew is kept within either 'acquaintance' or 'friend' boundaries, Nyota is a special case." Spock continues, his focus ostensibly outside the window but Kirk can still see the soft lines of sadness present around his eyes. "Because of the intimacy of the relationship we shared, she is more than simply 'friend' – and yet I am no longer in a romantic relationship with her. Knowing our customs, she typically places herself in the distances that general family occupy, at least when we are not operating as superior to inferior."

"Huh. I never would have expected something quite so detailed." He grins to himself. "Which shouldn't be a surprise, considering your people seem to have rules to govern every aspect of life – I'm surprised you use the head without asking permission, sometimes."

His comment earns him a wry glance. "While the notion of personal boundaries does exist in Terran cultures, the differences vary considerably from nation to nation. The Scandinavians demand a far greater distance between acquaintances than Japanese, for example. Perhaps I consider Human protocol far too loose and tactless, and think it could benefit from more specific and uniform guidelines."

Kirk's grin widens and he wants to laugh, but he's just too exhausted from the day they've had to get up that much energy.

"It's these people's customs we have to think about now, anyway," he says with a sigh, bringing them back to the important topic. "We just have to finish these last few details here, and then I can get some rest. I want to have all of this done so it's all ready for presentation tomorrow."

"Indeed, Captain." A nod, as Spock acknowledges his point. "A logical decision. Allow me to review what I believe to be the case, and what I would counsel as the best options, so that you may make your final decisions."

"Sounds great," Kirk replies, giving Spock his attention as the Vulcan details his observations.

Or, at least, the majority of his attention. A very small part of him is assimilating the new information and is curious how far inside Spock's 'boundaries of familiarity' the Vulcan would allow him to stand.

After a few minutes, he finds he's unable to hold himself back and takes a small, deliberate step into the bubble of what he had previously termed Spock's personal space. As they discuss the day's events, he continues inching closer until a flicker of unease shifts around Spock's eyes – and then he stops.

Kirk is so elated that Spock _hasn't stepped away_ that adrenaline makes all traces of his exhaustion disappear. Neither does it return the entire time they're discussing the plan, and he can feel a satisfied grin lifting one corner of his mouth.

He has resolved to never be _outside_ the bubble again.


	18. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Well, here it is. This is officially the 18th chapter overall. So if there are 36 chapters total, it means we are halfway through this story :) And at this point, I have hit over 90k words (By the official count, which isn't considering author's notes, etc). I thought I'd be lucky to hit 100k with the entire story, so I am very proud of myself xD.

**A/N:** Well, here it is. This is officially the 18th chapter overall. So if there are 36 chapters total, it means we are halfway through this story :) And at this point, I have hit over 90k words (By the official count, which isn't considering author's notes, etc). I thought I'd be lucky to hit 100k with the entire story, so I am very proud of myself xD.

In the last two weeks I have gotten two very, very special presents that I've been anxious to share. FANARTS! *squeals like a little girl* MedicatedManiac illustrated the last scene from Chapter Five, when Kirk decides he'll never be outside of Spock's bubble again! And surrenderdammit went back to Part One, Chapter Eight and illustrated Kirk's babysitting of the wittle bebe Vulcans. I AM IN LOVE WITH BOTH OF THESE. Links will be in my profile, so go and FAVORITE and COMMENT and LOVE! :D

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Six

* * *

**

He stands at the head of the conference table, focused and intent as his bridge crew and the department heads file in and take their seats. The end of a pointer is in his mouth, and he gently chews it as he contemplates.

Unusually, Spock is one of the last to arrive at the pre-mission briefing, making his way to his captain's side and stands next to him – _really_ next to him. Kirk lets out a little internal cheer as Spock positions himself with about a hand span of space between their two shoulders. Not content with the distance that was between them that day on the Observation Deck, Kirk has continued to slowly inch closer to the Vulcan. A month after the successful completion of that diplomatic mission, and his patience and diligence are finally paying off as Spock himself ignores the bubble of personal space he routinely maintains, because it no longer applies to Kirk.

His enjoyment of his new status is short-lived as they both take their seats and he slips back into duty, focusing on the up-coming meeting. Distracted as he irons out the details of the briefing in his head, he bites down on the pointer – hard enough to crack the slim instrument.

"That is unwise, Captain," Spock murmurs quietly, reminding Kirk again that his hearing is acute enough to pick up even the small sounds of crunching. "It is possible for you to damage your teeth with such an action, which will require a visit to Sickbay for corrective work to be carried out."

He removes the pointer from his mouth, grimacing at the taste of the material – it hadn't registered until that moment, "Meh! Tastes horrible anyway."

"Indeed," Spock comments, slight signs of humor in evidence in the area around his eyes.

Butting into the conversation, Bones turns to give Kirk a raised eyebrow, "If you plan on hurting yourself, kid, make it on an away mission – at least then we can all pretend it's not your fault."

"I'm just trying to give you something exciting to do, Bones," Kirk grins, sticking his tongue out at his friend. "I know how much you complain about treating all these scrapes and burns, I figured dental work would be new and interesting for you!"

The doctor chuckles at the comment, and opens his mouth to reply – but Chekov beats him to it.

"Oh, zhis ship is always interesting, with you as zhe keptan!" the young genius asserts, a big grin on his face.

Sulu, on the Russian's other side, pokes Chekov lightly in the ribs with an elbow. "You shouldn't say that."

Kirk watches as Chekov turns to his friend, a quizzical expression on his puppy-dog face. "Why? It is zhe truth, yes?"

The pilot smiles back, patting the whiz kid on the shoulder. "Just trust me on this one."

Chekov nods, shrugging his confusion off and turns to Kirk expectantly.

As Scott, the last one to arrive, enters with an apology and takes his seat, Kirk clears his throat to gather attention back to himself. The quiet conversations that had sprung up around the table cease, and everyone looks up at him intently.

His hand rubs the muscles at the back of his neck, as they've suddenly gone tight. While he's done several of these pre-mission briefings in the last month and a half since they left orbit around Quakel, he's still getting used to having his crew so focused and dependent on him and his command decisions. Before the _Narada_ , he basked in being the center of attention, but the way they look at him, look up to him, reminds him of all his responsibilities and how much he stands to lose if he makes a fatal error of judgment.

"The Admiralty," Kirk begins, "has decided that since the _Enterprise_ is already in the Regulus Quadrant, they are going to send us to the Kassae Sector. The Federation hasn't had the opportunity to explore much of that Sector, and there is a spatial anomaly located in the region that they want us to investigate. Some of you may know it colloquially as 'The Briar Patch' – they want to know what exactly it is, and if it poses any danger to life. Before Mr. Spock goes into the specifics of the mission, are there any questions so far?"

Scott is the first one to break the silence. "If Ah'm hearin' ye correctly, we're headin out of Federation space an' won't have a chance to stop by a space port an' do some upgrades, will we? Ah have some ideas on how t' make the cabins more comfortable without losing beds, but we need t' be docked, an' some time with the crew gone, for them t' be completed."

Kirk grins, never ceasing to be amazed by the Scot's dedication to the ship. Or his tinkering abilities. More comfortable cabins would certainly help with crew morale, as while the _Enterprise's_ are better than most, they'd never be considered roomy. But even though Kirk thinks it's a great idea, he can't resist the opportunity for some gentle teasing. "No, Scotty, not anytime in the near future. I'll try to swing a visit after this mission, if it'll make you feel better."

Grumbling softly to himself, the engineer leans back in his chair, "Nae, not truly. But it'll have to do."

It's hard to hold back a chuckle at Scotty's obvious pout, but he manages. Turning to Uhura, he asks, "Can you make sure to remind me – the next time I have a briefing with the Admiralty – my chief engineer requests time at a space port for some 'necessary repairs?'"

Uhura smiles at him, sharing in the joke, as she replies, "Of course, Captain." And then bends down to dutifully add it to her notes on the PADD before her. Kirk knows she doesn't need the written reminder – he saw her eyes light up at the mention of more comfortable cabins – and that it is mostly for the engineer's benefit, as Scotty is watching her from the corner of his eye.

Comfortable silence settles around them as everyone contemplates their new orders, Spock is about to begin the more in-depth briefing when he is interrupted by the intercom unit on the table chirping to life.

Leaning forward, Kirk presses the button to open the channel. "Kirk here."

"Captain, there's an incoming transmission from Starfleet," responds the Communications officer on duty, smoothly professional. "It's Admiral Pike, sir. I told him you were in a briefing, but he still told me to put him through."

"Relay it to the main viewscreen here, Ensign," he orders, spinning in his chair until he's facing the screen.

"Aye, Captain," says the officer, and a moment later the main screen displays the familiar view of an Academy office, Admiral Pike's silvered head front and center, seated at his desk.

The professionalism Kirk had cultivated while speaking with the duty officer disappears, eclipsed by a radiant grin. "Admiral Pike! It's been a while – how's it been, old man?"

The Admiral appears gruff, but there is warm familiarity in his eyes, "I am doing well, Captain, thanks for asking. I hear you haven't done anything disastrous to my ship in the last week."

His grin turning into a smirk, Kirk replies; "Oh, she's my baby now!"

Pike's gruffness is erased as a slow smile spreads across his face, "And that's how I know you'll continue to take care of her."

"Always, Admiral," is Kirk's immediate response, all seriousness for just a moment as he leans forward.

"Good," Pike says with a nod, and glances down at the PADD Kirk knows is just out of view. What's also out of view is the wheelchair that every person in the conference room knows Pike will be tied to for the rest of his life. Kirk watches them observe their former captain with grave respect tinged with sadness – and knows they love him almost as much as Kirk does.

Pike's smile is comfortable as he goes over the information he finds on the PADD, nodding every so often to himself. "I'm actually glad I caught you in the middle of your pre-mission briefing."

Kirk nods to the Admiral, aware of a coiled tension in his belly as he waits for the ball to drop.

"There's been a last minute adjustment to your orders," Pike explains, looking past Kirk to the senior crew seated around the table. "Not only are you to survey the anomaly and give us a full report, we have one more stop for you in the Kassae Sector. It's a planet in the Servin star system – an M-class, and Starfleet wants it thoroughly explored so they can tell if it's fit for colonization."

"Understood, sir."

"I've sent you a data packet with all the necessary information. I have every confidence in you all that you'll do a good job of this."

Kirk feels his tension dissipate, replaced with relief and a warm sense of accomplishment. He has – they have – progressed a long way since the Quakel mission, if additional responsibilities are being entrusted to them by the Admiralty.

Pike's slow smile gets a little wider, as he looks on the young crew with the same pride Kirk feels. "Remember, Kirk, if anything comes up contact us as soon as possible."

"Aye, sir." Kirk readily gives a salute, one which the Admiral easily returns.

"Keep the lady in one piece, Captain. She was mine first, and I'm counting on you," Pike jokes.

"I can't ever forget that, sir – you won't let me!" Kirk snaps back with his grin.

Pike raises a lone eyebrow – an expression he must have picked up from his former first officer – and then closes the channel without another comment.

* * *

Even though its name is safe, innocuous and _pedestrian_ sounding – like a piece of a fairy tale told to children – the Briar Patch sends shivers up and down Kirk's spine.

After traveling at maximum speed for several days, they have just dropped out of warp at the very edge of the spatial anomaly. Silently, Kirk thanks Spock for having advised him to maintain their distance from the region – getting too close would have certainly led to their destruction.

"Zhese are zhe coordinates, Keptan," Chekov confirms what is obviously apparent on the screen. "It appears as if zhis anomaly is wery large, yes?"

At a loss for words, Kirk revels at Chekov's ability to make understatements at the oddest of times. They aren't even _close_ to the anomaly, and in the viewscreen there is nothing but Briar Patch – no ending in sight.

"I can see that, Ensign," Kirk replies, eyeing the field of space matter before them. "Lieutenant Sulu, make sure we don't go anywhere closer to that thing until we have a full work up on its composition."

With a nod, and an 'Aye, Captain!' Sulu manipulates his controls until they're in a hold position.

Satisfied, Kirk turns toward the Science Station. "Commander Spock, are the probes ready?"

Intent on the monitors before him, and the readings that are scrolling across the screens, Spock does not look up as he answers. "Yes, Captain. They have been loaded for some time."

"Launch when ready," Kirk orders.

A brief pause, as the Vulcan inputs a specific sequence. "The probes have been launched, sir; we shall begin receiving telemetry in 5.63 minutes."

A grin in response, Kirk keeps his eyes on the viewscreen as the probes streak forward and disappear somewhere inside the cloudy mass before them.

Kirk waits, patient for once as the probes do their job. He can tell the instant they have spiraled open and begin collecting their information, as the computers around the Bridge start beeping as they receive the new data. And then every officer is occupied in a flurry of activity, as the information gets processed by the ship's supercomputers.

Kirk is able to monitor the incoming data stream on his PADD, but is the only person not involved in interpreting the results. He finds himself drawn to the view on the large screen, scrutinizing the anomaly before them. It _looks_ angry, an oppressive dark scarlet in color with flecks of something hard and black floating in the gloom. Kirk can see how it got its name – it actually does resemble a briar patch; if said briar patch had leaves the color of blood and sharp ebony spikes for thorns. But he also knows from some of the data they're receiving that these "thorns" are monolithic chunks of rock that could easily pierce the _Enterprise's_ smooth hull if something were to happen to their shields. A fleeting hope crosses his mind that the probes will come back with a result that it's too dangerous for them to enter that malevolent-seeming cloud.

Spock's voice breaks through the sound of tapping fingers and incoming data. "Preliminary reports are in, Captain. It appears as if the mass is not as solid as has been previously reported. Telemetry indicates the solid debris is consistent with the remains of a supernova; however the anomaly also contains two intact star systems. Readings suggest the presence of pockets of metreon gas, together with a previously unknown form of radiation and inexplicable vacuum fluctuations."

Ripping his eyes from the dread-inducing vision taking up the forward viewscreen, Kirk gladly feasts on the sight of his first officer's form.

"How passable are we talking about here?"

"From this data I have concluded that, provided we avoid the metreon gas clouds which will render the impulse engines inoperable, the anomaly is safe to enter at sublight speed to a distance of four point seven AUs from our current location. However in order to avoid overheating the impulse manifolds, we cannot traverse it at a velocity greater than thirty three percent impulse power."

Not what he really wanted to hear, but it gives them the ability to get the information Starfleet truly desires.

"Are you sure?" Kirk asks, and is immediately treated with a glance that can only be interpreted as affronted. He softens the question with a half-smile that he hopes conveys his trepidation at the thought of entering that – thing.

"I have reviewed the calculations twice, Captain. There is no doubt that we can safely enter the anomaly to the specified distance. Beyond that is an unknown since they were surface probes."

The clinical response does nothing to assuage Kirk's worries as far as the cloud goes, but at least the mildly affronted look has disappeared. He takes some small comfort in the knowledge that Spock is getting good enough at reading his expressions that he knew what he meant.

Sighing with resignation, Kirk turns back to the viewscreen and the anomaly that fills it, "Understood, Commander." Kirk presses a button on the arm of his chair and leans forward. "Attention all hands. Preliminary reports show the anomaly we have been ordered to investigate is safe to enter. We're analyzing all data as we receive it; however, we're dealing with the unknown here, so as a precaution, I want anything out of the ordinary to be reported to the appropriate department head, no matter how inconsequential it may seem. Kirk out."

Something makes Kirk turn back to Spock, who gives him a nod of approval – the small action gives him an inexplicably warm feeling. With a smile, he turns back to the viewscreen. "Sulu, proceed into the anomaly, ahead one third impulse and keep a close eye on where those metreon clouds are. Chekov, power all shields to full. I don't want any of that – debris – causing unnecessary damage." Both the helm officers chirp their affirmatives, as the _Enterprise_ floats gently forward.

Kirk swivels in his chair. "Uhura, keep scanning all frequencies. There may be intelligent life in those star systems and who knows what else could be hiding in there; I don't want anything ambushing us while we're carrying out our exploration."

"Aye, Captain," she murmurs from her station.

As they begin to infiltrate the edges of the cloud, Kirk realizes he is bracing for some sort of impact. Risking a glance back, he looks at Spock and can see there is no sign of tension in his body posture. Even with his back turned to him, he can imagine the expression on his face is one of keen interest and expectation.

Resolving not to feel any fear if Spock so obviously isn't, Kirk shifts his attention back to the viewscreen with something closer to curiosity. Despite Sulu's best efforts at avoidance, the arm of his chair beeps as the shields register impact – but nothing serious enough to weaken them. The helmsman throws an apologetic look over his shoulder before returning his eyes forward.

The entire Bridge crew– excluding Spock – seems to release an unconscious sigh of relief as they slip further inside without incident. Nothing dangerous, so far, at these speeds.

"Keep it nice and slow Sulu," Kirk commands unnecessarily, as the pilot maneuvers the ship with a finesse that belies its size. "We want to be able to stop immediately if necessary."

It's an irrational thought, given all the background noises made by the bridge computers and equipment, but Kirk thinks he could hear a pin drop in the silence as Sulu flies the _Enterprise_ around any debris large enough to be a threat to the integrity of the shields. During his training, Kirk went on a field trip to the Sol system's Kuiper Belt and, while some of the asteroids there were big, none were as huge as the planetoids Sulu has to fly around. Every now and again, flashes of shimmering light in the viewscreen show the shields are doing their job, as they deflect various bits of floating matter.

"Spock – how wide do the reports state this anomaly is?" Kirk asks, keeping his eyes on the viewscreen.

Several beeps ensue behind him, as Spock pulls up the necessary information; "On our current trajectory, it measures six hundred forty nine AUs in diameter; however the size varies, with the greatest diameter being zero point seven six three light years."

"Okay. Sulu, get us as close to the center as it's safe to do so on our current heading, and then we'll send off another set of probes."

"Aye, Captain," the helmsman replies, glancing down at his display to see how far in they've already navigated.

At one third impulse on a course that circumnavigates the larger debris and avoids pockets of metreon gas, it takes them over four tense hours to reach the center of the cloud. Once there, Sulu brings them to a gentle stop. Kirk notices with approval that the helmsman keeps his hands on his controls, ready to respond if any emergency arises.

After checking his displays one more time Sulu announces, "The center of the anomaly is directly in front of us, Captain."

"Great work, Lieutenant," Kirk responds automatically, before he addresses Spock. "Commander, launch the second set of probes. Let's get those readings in as quickly as possible so we can get _out_ of here and make our way over to the Servin system."

This time, as soon as the probes leave the protective veil of the shields, they disappear into the oppressive red mass around them. The silence on the Bridge lingers, as everyone hurries to collect the necessary data so they can leave.

Kirk is relieved when, many stressful minutes later, Spock reports from his Science Station. "All requested data has been collected, Captain. Starfleet's mission parameters regarding this anomaly have been fulfilled."

"Thank you, Commander," Kirk murmurs, knowing the Vulcan can hear his low tone. The atmosphere has served to suppress even his vibrant personality, and he just wants to _leave_.

He gives the order to Sulu to reverse their course, and they gratefully make their way out of that forbidding place.

* * *

After they leave The Briar Patch behind them – with not a scratch on the lady's hull, thanks to Sulu's phenomenal piloting skills – they arrive at the Servin star system ahead of schedule the following day, dropping to impulse on its outer edge.

The vibrant blue star, over three times the size of Sol, in the center of the system is beautiful to behold. Intellectually, Kirk knows that this means Servin burns hotter than Earth's own and, given its much larger mass, that it will become a brilliant red supergiant towards the end of its life cycle. But knowing this does not diminish his awe at the sight in the viewscreen, or his incredulity that something so beautiful could exist so close to The Briar Patch, which gave him the creeps.

With its intense heat and radiation, they stop close to the orbit of the outermost planet in this system. The screen automatically adjusts so the image is safe to view without damaging their eyes, and Kirk takes a few moments to watch the roiling blue colors on the star's surface.

Because it burns hotter than Sol, Servin has fried the inner planets to crunchy husks, denying any life that might have existed on them. Only the sixth planet is in that perfect zone of close enough to get warm – but not too close to burn off atmosphere.

Servin VI is also subject to the perfect conditions to create an Earth-like oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere, which means the away teams are going to be able to explore the planet's surface without worrying about the quality of the air. According to the reports, the planet is covered in plants that photosynthesize, creating a rich ozone layer.

Without needing an order, Sulu turns the _Enterprise_ towards the planet on their leeward side, coming in close to the orb. The planet that comes into view is as different from Earth as its star is different from Sol; instead of the rich blues and greens Kirk is used to, it has ochre and orange and subtle pink blazoned across its surface in delicate patterns.

"Put us in orbit as close to that large continent as you can get," Kirk orders, indicating the land mass in the upper left quadrant of the globe. It is a conscious choice, and not something picked at random – that area of the planet will soon be entering daybreak, and will give them plenty of time to explore the continent before darkness forces them back to the ship.

"Aye, Captain," Sulu responds, easing them well above the top layers of the atmosphere and coming to a geostationary rest – twenty five thousand kilometers above the surface of the planet.

With a confident smile on his face, Sulu programs the ship to automatically make corrections to maintain orbit, flying at over 10,000km an hour to maintain an orbit close to the planet's continent; they will stay in this exact spot for as long as they need to. After he finishes with the required calculations, Sulu turns to his friend with a grin on his face.

"This is the closest I can get, Captain."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Kirk replies, distracted as he watches the blue star rise over the crest of the planet. The two objects complement each other beautifully, the oranges against the blues. He gets lost in the sight – until a shift of fabric informs him that someone's standing at his side and the faint wash of heat tells him who.

Glancing up, his eyes meet two orbs that are infinitely more interesting than anything on the viewscreen. Kirk can't help but smile. "It's a beautiful view, isn't it, Spock?"

The Vulcan regards the image on the viewscreen for a moment, then turns back to his captain. "The current view is indeed aesthetically pleasing."

His smile turns into a wide grin. "Are the landing parties ready?" he asks, finding it, at least for the moment, hard to think around the warmth that fills him when he's near the Vulcan.

"They are prepared, and waiting to begin transport," Spock murmurs in his low voice.

"Just what I wanted to hear!" he responds enthusiastically as he rises from his chair. "Sulu, you have the conn."

Facing his first officer, he grins. "Are you ready for some fun?"

The question earns him a tilt of the left eyebrow in mock disapproval as they enter the turbolift. "I have yet to determine exactly what you mean when you state an activity is going to be 'fun,' Captain. Whenever you use that term, it typically means something or someone – usually yourself – is going to be damaged in some way."

Kirk's hand shifts, but falls back to its side before he brushes the Vulcan's arm. "Not _all_ the time, Spock. Fun means different and interesting and…well...usually a high chance of explosions." Undaunted, he leads the way from the lift to the transporter room as they continue their discussion.

His grin is bright enough to light up the corridor all on its own.

(*)

The puppy is stretching his legs. Kirk watches, shielding his eyes from the sun, as Archie leaps and jumps, panting, through the long grass-like vegetation on the planet's surface.

They had spent the planet's morning setting up command headquarters in the clearing, and then the landing parties had gone back to the ship to eat. Because he'd be staying at the HQ while the survey teams did their work, Kirk decided it would be good to take Archie to the surface for some exercise. He is incredibly happy he did – the puppy has been penned up in the _Enterprise_ , without any real exercise, for too long. But he has one worry, one he hopes will be assuaged.

"You're sure that the radiation levels aren't strong enough to damage him?" he asks, turning to glance at Spock, who is standing close at his side, their shoulders almost brushing. As first officer, Spock is in charge of coordinating the efforts of both the teams on the ground, and back on board the _Enterprise_. As science officer, he is responsible for overseeing the collection and analysis of the data gathered by the various teams and, because they're investigating the planet to see if it's habitable by Humans, there are a lot of teams – people checking on geological factors, chemical makeup of air and soil, weather and climate differences, and mapping the flora, fauna and microbes of the planet. Spock is the one all the reports from the section heads and teams will get handed to as the day ends, and is in charge of coordinating the next day's efforts in the same areas, so this small moment together is probably the only time Kirk will get to see the Vulcan for the next two weeks in an unofficial capacity.

"I am certain, Captain," Spock murmurs in easy reassurance, "as the depletion of the ozone layer was created by the gases expelled from the volcanoes on the southern hemisphere of the planet, and not as a result of damage from chlorofluorocarbons as in the early 21st century of Earth. Therefore, the radiation leaking through is not extensive and should have no adverse effect on the crew, or the canine."

"But we haven't found any native creatures yet… " he can't help but add, his brows furrowing slightly as he considers.

"I am certain that we will find an explanation for this," Spock responds, his eyes focused on the dog running around in the field and completely unconcerned about the topic at hand. "Also, if their destruction was caused by abnormally high levels of radiation for this planet, it has no bearing since the level is not of a sufficient severity to have a detrimental effect on any living being from Earth. The Federation would not be considering this planet for colonization, otherwise."

Satisfied, at least for now, Kirk lapses into silence as he allows himself to take pleasure in watching Archie enjoy his freedom.

"One could be forgiven for believing the animal has boundless reserves of energy, Captain," Spock says after several minutes of watching the dog cavort around the field.

Kirk's mouth spreads in an easy grin, eyes following the puppy as he approaches the limit of how far he's allowed to get from his master. "He's not even close to his limit, Spock, trust me! He'll run for a good fifteen minutes more; then pass out for three hours."

"So he expends energy for periods of 20 minutes, and then is forced to recover for six times that length of time? There is a certain inefficiency in this approach."

"He's only six months old," Kirk explains, turning to glance at his friend. "He's got a lot of energy to get rid of and the rest of that baby fat needs to be burned away."

"I see," Spock replies, pretending Vulcan disinterest – but Kirk can see the fascinated curiosity hidden beneath the surface. Over time, Kirk's been able to determine that Spock's apparent dislike of the dog was more distrust – the Vulcan, having no real experience with Terran animals, had not known how to interact with Archie. But after Spock's stint as caretaker for the animal, things have thawed between them considerably.

Turning from his friend to look for the dog again, Kirk is frustrated to see that – in his excitement – Archie has travelled farther than he's allowed to.

" _Zeh-Kwul Karik'es Archer_ –" Kirk calls, the sharp command traveling on the wind like a whip.

His head spinning around, the puppy looks back at Kirk – then ducks his head down, tail wagging low as he trots quickly back towards his master. But instead of stopping near Kirk, the dog sits at Spock's side and looks up at the Vulcan expectantly. Kirk can't help but grin at the positive sign that their relationship is growing and is satisfied that the dog won't wander again.

Glancing again at his friend, his smile turns sheepish, as he finds Spock observing him, one eyebrow elevated in silent question and an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"Archer Straight-Strike Strength?" Spock repeats in Standard. "Is that name not somewhat ostentatious on such an animal?"

For a moment Kirk can't decide between a grimace and a grin, and settles on something in between – another shrug. But the memory brings a slow smile to his face nonetheless. "Yeah…it wasn't exactly what I had in mind for his full name. But I _did_ promise Surel that she could help me name him. She explained it as…" he pauses for a second as he tries to remember, "'For a creature of such dignity and honor it is requisite that his name signify his strength and pride of bearing.' Or something along those lines."

The animal in question has left Spock's side – now that Kirk's attention is elsewhere – and is busy rooting around in the grass, rolling in a smell he found particularly interesting.

Spock returns his gaze to the dog, observing him for several moments before shaking his head in confusion. "I must admit, Captain, that I do not see the animal in quite the same way our young friend does. There is no dignity or pride in his form."

Kirk's smile turns into a grin as he resists the urge to give Spock's arm a comforting squeeze. "Don't worry, Spock. When he finishes growing up, he'll be a very prideful little creature and you'll understand better then."

Then he sobers for a minute, remembering the little girl he'd helped as much as he'd been able. "She made me practice for days, and she _still_ laughed at my pronunciation of his name. Well, laughed as much as a Vulcan allows themselves to."

Beside him, Spock shifts so his eyes alight on Kirk instead of the dog, an eyebrow again raised and his head tilted gently to the side. "I fail to understand her criticism. Your pronunciation, while not on a par with a native speaker, is excellent for a Human. It is unavoidable that your vocal chords have difficulty with some of our consonants."

Unable to help himself, Kirk chuckles, feeling warmed by the compliment. "Thanks, Spock – that really means a lot. I've worked hard on Vulcan, as well as the other languages I know."

Spock's expression turns curious. "How many languages are you fluent in?"

Kneeling so he can pet Archie, who's pressing himself, stinking, against Kirk's knees, he grins. He only allows himself to because he knows his face is safely turned away from the Vulcan. "Enough. I was even treasurer for the Academy's xenolinguistics club."

"Fascinating."

Before the conversation can continue an ensign runs up, calling for Spock – the brief moment of respite is over, and they're pulled back into the rush around them.

(*)

Much to Kirk's chagrin, not that it's unexpected, they are both kept busy for the rest of the daylight hours. And after the last of the daylight has disappeared and they are back on the ship, Spock's duties actually increase – as now he has to go over all the reports he was given for the day, as well as plan the next day's activities.

In an attempt to lighten Spock's load – as his own duties are fewer during their time on the planet – Kirk offers to help the Vulcan with his paperwork. It's also an excuse to spend time in Spock's company, which makes the paperwork much less torture to contemplate.

Even though they're not talking very much, Kirk is enjoying himself. Leaning forward, his chin resting on his palm, he stares down at the PADDs spread out between them. Even though he's paying attention to the report he's currently going over, from this angle he can still clearly see Spock's hands, steepled gracefully in front of the Vulcan.

And he can ogle them whenever he gets a moment, without Spock even having a clue. One of those hands shifts, smoothly reaching across the table. Spock inclines forward to grasp a PADD almost out of his reach, leaning towards Kirk. His head stops just shy of touching Kirk's, and the Human freezes in surprise. So close he can see the individual hairs as they fall in perfect order, the smooth green-shaded ear so near that if he exhales strongly, his breath would reach it.

He doesn't know what to do, not wanting to draw attention to where Spock is, and never wanting him to pull away, and so he continues to hold still. The Vulcan's elevated body temperature creates a halo of heated air around his head, and Kirk can feel the warmth like a kiss against his cheek. When he inhales, his lungs are filled with the scent of coriander – and something else he can never quite place, no matter how many times he catches it while they're practicing in the gym, but reminds him of a different place and time, he's just not quite sure where.

And as suddenly as he came close, Spock moves away again. He has the PADD he needed, the one with the schedule for tomorrow, and Kirk is too stunned to even recognize it happened. All he knows is that his cheek feels suddenly cold.

Clearing a throat gone suddenly dry, he glances up at Spock, who is looking at him with an expression that is eerily similar to the one Kirk was given earlier in the day.

Kirk raises an eyebrow questioningly, curious to find out what Spock's thinking of when he looks like that.

"I have been contemplating a topic since our discussion this afternoon," Spock begins, indulging Kirk's curiosity. "Indeed, I have been contemplating it for three point two weeks, but your revelation today that you have the ability to speak my language will make it easier for my people to accept, which is why I raise the subject now."

Curiosity now burning a hole in his belly, Kirk leans forward and rests his chin on his hand. "How could my being able to speak Vulcan have any bearing on anything?"

"You are aware that the Vulcan people are, by nature, private," Spock speaks softly in his low voice, eyes focused inward as he speaks. "There are many traditions we do not discuss with outsiders. There is one, an ancient tradition, which predates Surak. The closest equivalent I have been able to find referenced on Earth was the Trojans, and their traditions. Like the Trojans, Vulcans were honored with warrior brotherhoods, known as _S'Kanderai_ , which were forged in blood on the battlefield."

Kirk has no problem keeping quiet, intrigued by the information that Spock is sharing. He knows that the Vulcans are reclusive – that even Bones was having difficulty getting medical data to assist in the treatment of Spock should he need it. Having done some informal research himself following the recognition of his interest in Spock, he found that no one outside a select few has discovered much about pre-Surakian Vulcan and what is known is, at best, sketchy.

"While fighting in the battlefield, if two warriors displayed an aptitude, if they complimented each other, they were given the chance to become _ne ki'ne_ – shield partners." His attention turning outward again, Spock's dark eyes alight on Kirk's face. "You and I fought well together while onboard the _Narada_. There was a rhythm, a silent understanding between us that allowed us to achieve our goal in a manner that would be considered exceptional by the standards of my people. Also, because of the aptitude you have shown during our practices – even with the ancient Vulcan combat techniques I have been demonstrating – I had considered that you and I could be _ne ki'ne_. Your abilities, combined with how well we have complimented one another during our various confrontations, are ample evidence that you would excel at the special pairs fighting style used by the _ne ki'ne_. Yet I did not want to mention anything until I was greater than 97.3% positive that this was the correct path for us."

Stunned by the admission, Kirk can't do anything but blink. Surprise doesn't even begin to cover his response, and he tries to ignore that little piece of him that screams _want_ deep inside. "Why would my knowledge of Vulcan make _ne ki'ne_ the correct path?" he quietly asks, managing to keep his voice level.

"It is simple, Captain," Spock continues, a smile hovering somewhere around those dark eyes. "Over the coming years of this mission, such an association and the specific training required can only enhance our ability to achieve victory in the face of adversity. You and I have already fought as _ne ki'ne_ in all but name. It would mean you would be formally accepted into my family as my brother. You would be the first outworlder to be given this privilege. It was your actions on the drill during the Battle of Vulcan that caused a long enough delay in Nero's goal to allow me to rescue Vulcan's elders. That, together with your fluency in Vulcan – demonstrating an interest in our culture – would make it easier for some to accept. I believe the honor is deserved."

He gulps, mouth dry again in a way he doesn't think will go away. Spock…wants him as a brother. Kirk's eyes mist over, as he's reminded of the discussion they had nearly a month ago, about Sam – and how much Sam had meant to him. It wouldn't be the same, no – but he would have someone who he can depend on, that he knows will stand up for him and be there for him no matter what.

"I would be honored, Captain, if you would allow me to be your brother," comes Spock's quiet voice, and then Kirk really is blinking back tears.

He ducks his head to hide them, his voice wobbly as he answers, "Only if you call me Jim." It hurts to say the words aloud, but it feels right and he doesn't want to take it back. If Spock is going to be his brother, then he's allowed.

"If that is what you desire, Jim."

Even stranger than saying the word aloud, is hearing it used. But he grins, forcing away the betraying tears, and lifts his head to look into Spock's eyes.

"It is."


	19. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** It seems like one chapter every two weeks is becoming my norm. ^_^

**A/N:** It seems like one chapter every two weeks is becoming my norm. ^_^

* * *

  
 **Chapter Seven**   


* * *

"Are you coming up with us, Bones?" Kirk asks, his eyes not on the doctor, but instead on the Vulcan who is carefully checking the lines which have been attached to the cliff face before them.

Bones grunts and crosses his arms over his chest as his head tilts back – and keeps tilting, until he's able to make out the top of the cliff high above them. "Up there? I don't think so. I think you three are out of your mind for doing it, and my feet are staying firmly planted on the ground, thank you very much!"

Grinning, Kirk turns to slap his friend on the shoulder. "I wouldn't expect anything else from you."

Deep creases appear in the doctor's forehead, as he glances at the pilot and the navigator – both are kneeling at the base of the cliff, talking excitedly together. Kirk follows his friend's gaze, observing the two heads, one dark and one light, bent closely together as they examine a particularly interesting piece of flora.

Kirk knew about Sulu's obsession with botany before they got off world, but he did not comprehend the depths to which it had sunk its pointy little claws. Ever since they've been in orbit, Sulu has been free to romp through the jungles and plains with the scientists – he was so involved that Kirk was surprised he'd been able to convince Sulu to come along on his little excursion. But after seeing Sulu and Chekov together in an off-duty setting, it's quite obvious that the only reason the pilot left his plants is because Kirk told him the whiz kid was going to be there, too.

"I don't expect anything else from those two, either. They'll follow you through hell and high water," Bones replies, and Kirk can see the worry hidden in those eyes.

"I know that, Bones. Won't ever let anything happen to them. Why else do you think Spock is here?" He keeps his tone confident and warm, wrapped around the happiness that he feels at his bridge crewmen's trust of him.

His comment earns a laugh, a real chuckle this time. "Cause he refused to let you leave the HQ without bringing him along." With a thumb, the doctor points behind them, at the silent and ever watchful Security detail. "Or them."

Chagrined, Kirk rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah. He was rather annoyed that time we went hang gliding and didn't tell anyone else of our plans beforehand. I think the Security team is just punishment for that." He risks a glance at the pair of guards, who aren't paying attention to the conversation and are instead focused on the jungle surrounding them.

He's not turned far enough away to miss the sharp glance Bones sends his way, or the raised eyebrow. "Annoyed? Spock doesn't get 'annoyed.'"

Shifting his shoulders, Kirk shrugs. "He does. You just have to know how to see the signs – but they're there."

An answering shrug from the doctor, as he responds, "Whatever you say, kid. I'll have to take your word on it – I don't know the hobgoblin enough to make judgment calls like that."

"Trust me, Bones," he says, giving that shoulder a squeeze before he walks forward, towards the Vulcan in question. Kirk doesn't feel like getting into an argument with his friend, not today. After two weeks of working nearly nonstop to catalog conditions, the scientific teams have finally come to a conclusion about the planet. Even though Servin VI is teaming with boundless plant life, with many different biomes available, it is not a candidate for Human colonization. And, much to Kirk's surprise, while they suspect the high level of radiation is responsible for the decimation of native fauna, it is not the reason the planet is unacceptable.

As demonstrated with Archie, the radiation levels are not high enough to be harmful to any plants or animals brought to Servin VI from Earth – but what is harmful for anything trying to grow on the planet are the chemical compounds found in the soil and, consequently, the water. Spock's landing parties have found high levels of many chemicals that would be incompatible with non-native species of plants, making it nearly impossible to grow any food on the planet without relying on ridiculously expensive filtering hydroponics systems.

The expense to keep a tiny colony going on the world would far outweigh any benefit received by hosting them here. In short, any hopes the Federation had of making this planet a viable colony will be dashed as soon as they receive the reports from the _Enterprise_.

A conclusion reached, there are only a few tasks left to tidy up the ends of reports before the ship takes off towards their next assignment. Not being one to ever waste an opportunity, Kirk hunted down his pilot and navigator, and all the necessary supplies for a little expedition.

Somehow, they'd picked up Spock, Bones, and the security guards along the way, but Kirk doesn't really mind. He's always happy to spend time with Bones, even if the doctor won't actually be staying around when they climb the rock.

Stepping up to his other friend, Kirk watches as the Vulcan runs a tricorder over the cliffside, scanning for any irregularities that could be dangerous to their climb. Kirk has been testing this bubble theory, because according to Spock the only ones allowed to get closer than "brother" are Bondmate – and he wants to see where that boundary actually is. He stops in what has become his space, just shy of brushing his shoulder against the Vulcan.

No twitch or sign of any tension from Spock, and Kirk decides it's time to push his experiment just a little farther. With a secret grin, he leans forward until his lips are just millimeters from the Vulcan's ear. Watches, as his breath makes a delicate flush of green appear on the pointed tip, and whispers, "Do you really think it's necessary to scan the cliff face? It takes the fun and sense of danger out of the whole experience!"

To his great surprise, instead of drawing away from him, Spock simply turns to face him. He'd expected the Vulcan to distance himself from the breath on his ear, or at the very least to such close proximity. Instead, they both freeze and their breaths mingle for just a moment, Spock's warmth tickling his cheek. Kirk is so close he can see the facets of color immersed in the mahogany eyes, and he has to pull slightly away before he loses all thought processing capabilities.

Completely indifferent to their unexpected nearness, Spock replies to the question Kirk has forgotten he asked. "Indeed, Captain. As dictated by Starfleet regulation 4, paragraph 12, all measures should be taken to ensure the safety of you and the other members of the crew. Would you not agree?"

Swallowing, Kirk can't help the grin that appears on his face. "Of course, Commander. Please continue."

Without another comment, Spock's attention returns to the tricorder in his hands. Because he's so close, and watching the Vulcan so intently, he doesn't miss the signs of satisfaction that appear around Spock's eyes at what he sees.

"The cliff face is structurally sound, Captain," he answers the unspoken question, slipping the tricorder back into its carrying case. Kirk can't help but grin, having been proven right once again.

"Is there anything else you need to check before we go up, Mr. Spock?" he asks, letting a little bit of his teasing into his tone. The Vulcan, picking up his mood, shifts an eyebrow into a sarcastic tilt.

"Everything has been deemed adequate, Captain."

His grin widening marginally, still dazed from his victorious whisper, he calls to the two young bridge crew kneeling in the dirt. "Hey, you two! You ready to go up yet, or you still wanna play with the weeds for a while?"

Rising from his knees, Chekov brushes the dirt from his hands as he and Sulu share a look. "Zhey are not weeds, Keptin. Zhis particular specimen is a stunning example of zhe plant most common to zhis region of zhe planet. It has broad, palmate leawes with distinctive toothed margins that are easily identifiable."

The young genius puffs out his chest, his eyes bright with the joy of knowledge. Kirk can't resist, and dashes forward to capture the whiz kid in a headlock, ruffling his hair. Turning to his other friend, he gives the pilot a punch in the arm – not missing the pride glowing in Sulu's eyes. "Trying to convert him, are you?"

"He's converted himself," Sulu replies, the wonder clear in his voice. Glancing at Chekov, Kirk can't miss the flush on the younger man's cheeks. Internally, Kirk gives a little cheer – whatever this is between his crew, it seems to be mutual.

Before he gets involved with the two any further, he turns to look back at Spock. "Staying to watch?"

The Vulcan shakes his head, hands clasped behind his back now that the tricorder is back in its case. His eyes are comfortable, a little bit of humor present as he replies, "I will request to be beamed back to headquarters along with the doctor. There are duties I must attend to, as this is our last full day on the planet. The security detail will be staying here, in case their presence is required."

Grimacing at the thought of the security team being left here to twiddle their thumbs, Kirk opens his mouth to protest – but thinks better of it, knowing it'll make Spock feel better that he's not leaving them alone in the wilderness. He knows how seriously the Vulcan takes his duties as first officer. Instead, he answers with, "Sounds good, Spock. Tell Bones that I'm glad he came with us for a little bit, will you?"

"That can be accomplished with ease, Jim," Spock murmurs with a nod, before he walks out of the small clearing in front of the cliff. Watching as the Vulcan stops to talk to Bones, Kirk waves his hand when the doctor looks in his direction. Once the two have disappeared in the familiar shimmer of transporter energy, he turns to his remaining two friends, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

He freezes when he sees the look in Sulu's eyes, not liking the calculating nature of his gaze. Shoulders stiffening minutely, he raises an eyebrow at his friend. "What?"

"N-nothing," the pilot replies, his eyes trailing to the spot Spock was occupying moments before.

Shrugging to release the tension that had built between his shoulder blades, Kirk tries again to find the top of the cliff. He leans his head back – and back, and back. Grinning again at the sight, the mind-boggling _height_ of it, and all thoughts of Sulu's odd comment, and sharing breath with Spock, disappear.

 _This_ looks like fun. Grinning like a maniac, he slings his arm over Chekov's shoulders. The smile on Chekov's face matches his own as the Russian follows Kirk's gaze, looking at his handiwork. The young navigator is responsible for the three thick, strong ropes snaking down from where he anchored them at the top of the cliff earlier, thanks to some nifty use of the transporters that he coordinated with Scotty.

"It looks fantastic, Pavel," Kirk says, as he squeezes the thin shoulder under his arm. "You picked the _perfect_ spot! Thank you!"

The Russian is fairly glowing when he looks up at his friend. "You really zhink so? Zhere were so many choices, but zhis one is just so beautiful, yes?"

"Definitely," Sulu chimes in with a glance at the younger man. "I can't wait to start!"

In the face of both of his friends' approval, Chekov is nearly giddy with joy. "Ohh! Wonderful!"

Kirk can't help but notice the extra little glances the two officers are exchanging, and his suspicions about what's going on between them solidify into certainty. Slipping his arm from the Russian's shoulders, he walks over to the pile of supplies and starts pulling out his equipment. Helmet, climbing shoes, harness.

After a brief murmured conversation, the two other men join him and get into their own equipment. Happy chatter ensues as they separate, each moving towards one of the dangling ropes before them.

Chekov takes the far area to ascend, Sulu the middle, and Kirk this end. The distance between them is far enough that they have plenty of room to maneuver, but close enough that they can assist each other if necessary. Quite pleased, Kirk sees that his section of rock includes a particularly complicated looking segment to climb – an overhang, and a suspiciously smooth seeming fragment of surface.

He hooks the rope into the carabineer at his waist and automatically tugs harshly on the cable to check that it's anchored properly. Dipping his hands into the small pouch attached to his harness, he coats them in the smooth ground chalk while he inspects the cliff face before him.

Following a path with his eyes, he determines the best angle of ascent. If he goes up _here_ he'll run into trouble at _this spot_ but it's the only way to get to _that level_ …. Carefully, he burns the path into his mind until he can see it clearly. Nodding, satisfied, he claps his hands together to settle the chalk, and then steps forward.

With a grin, he turns to his fellow climbers and sees that they are also ready to begin. He gives the thumps up sign, words unnecessary as he approaches the wall, letting all thoughts of them and anyone else disappear as he enters his focus. Hand to wall, feel out the hold. Test it. Find the next. Always with three limbs clinging to the wall to keep him secure, he slowly, slowly rises up the cliff.

Breathing deep and even, he is in his element, high on the freedom of the situation. Beautiful! He finally makes his way to the overhang after long tense moments spent navigating the slick area of the cliff. Kirk raises his eyes from the rock immediately above him, inspecting the overhang from his close proximity. It is possible for him to slip and fall while he's traversing this particular stretch of rock – but that's why he has the rope secured to his harness.

Thin cracks form a web across the bottom of the overhang, promising opportunities for holds. The hanging rock is too wide for him to cling like a monkey, the hand holds not properly spaced. He'll have to hang from his arms, relying on his upper body strength to pull him across the divide.

Taking his deepest breath yet to center himself, he makes up his mind on how to continue. Reaches out a hand, tests the hold with experimental fingers. Before he can begin, his attention is grabbed by a harsh yowling erupting from below – followed by a horrible scream, which gets cut off abruptly.

His heart freezes in his throat as he realizes what that means – impossible, no animals on the entire planet – and he frantically searches for signs of what could possibly be below. The security detail aren't where they had been standing, but what are noticeably visible are two stains of red spreading across the plant life.

Out of nowhere, something appears out of the vegetation at the base of the cliff. Digging in with its claws, it easily scales the rock face until it is almost level with Kirk – and despite a valiant attempt to out-climb it, with a lunge it reaches up with its jaw and grabs him by the leg, teeth sinking into his thigh. Through the haze of pain, he sees dark speckled fur, heavily muscled limbs and multiple huge dark eyes as the thing pushes off the cliff side, trying to pull Kirk down with it.

He hears a scream – not sure if it's his own, or one of his friends' as he's being dragged down the cliff. Desperate, his hands grip the rope looped through his harness with every ounce of strength he can spare. Skin burns off his palms as friction slows his progress, his legs flinging outward as he finally jerks to a stop and his downward motion ends, the animal still latched onto his thigh. His shoulder joints protest the vicious drag on the muscles, but thankfully do not pop out of their sockets.

In his peripheral vision he sees a flash of Chekov's terrified face, as the young genius clings to the rock face before him. Movement also registers close on his left, as he realizes Sulu has been matching his descent.

He remembers, in a burst, that Sulu always _always_ carries his sword, as he sees the glint of light reflecting off a metallic surface. And then a scream that is definitely not his, as the creature releases him suddenly.

His downward motion may have stopped, but the momentum still hasn't been expended; he swings outward, and then the pendulum reverses inward, and he crashes into the side of the cliff with a bone-numbing thud, the force exaggerated at the sudden loss of the creature's mass. Automatically, his feet try to curl around the rope, to secure him and take the majority of his weight off his tormented arms. But the movement awakens his nerves, making them scream in agony and the pain clouds his mind. He's left gasping, as he tries to reclaim his equilibrium and silence his protesting body; he struggles to think, instead of just react to the situation.

He hears thrashing beneath him that he doesn't even want to think about, as he glances around – searching wildly for his pilot as his arms shake with the effort of holding himself aloft. He sees Sulu, also clinging precariously to the side of the cliff, not several feet to his left.

Sulu shoots him a worried-yet-relieved look, and then glances down below them. Kirk follows his gaze, mesmerized by the last desperate gesticulations of the creature beneath them.

It snarls up at its lost prey, its eyes already glazing over. Sulu's sword is buried up to its hilt deeply in the creature's side, purple blood gurgling out around the wound. It churns the earth beneath it with its gigantic claws, reaching up towards the two Humans as if to pluck them from their safety on the cliff. Its jaws open but instead of a growl, or snarl, or whatever noise the creature was intending to emit, it releases a bubble of air that pops from its throat and collapses into a frothing pool of its own blood.

Letting go of the breath he didn't know he was holding, Kirk finds himself trembling as he clutches the rope in his hands. It _hurts_ and that was too close of a call for comfort. It had him, and if it hadn't been for –

Sulu motions down, frantically indicating that they should leave the cliff. Kirk can see Chekov already repelling down on the pilot's other side. Shaking his head to clear the fog of terror and pain, Kirk loosens his death-grip on the cable and tries to control his repel down the side of the cliff. He resolutely ignores the agony cutting through shredded skin and filleted muscle, his nerves on fire and his shoulders aching with every movement.

The pilot reaches the ground before him, and retrieves his sword from the still-steaming corpse. Both friends are standing right below him, and catch him when his arms give out and he falls the last several feet. The adrenaline is wearing off, his trembling has escalated to full-blown shaking, and he feels light headed; glancing down at his leg, he can tell his pants are damp and dripping with blood.

"Sulu to Bridge, we have an emergency situation!" the helmsman says urgently into his communicator. "Beam us directly to Sickbay _now_! And get McCoy!"

The young Russian has pulled off his belt and wraps it around Kirk's leg. Worried, Kirk lifts his arm to tug on Chekov's sleeve, trying to ask about the security team – but his vision is starting to blur, and it's hard to form words. And then the makeshift tourniquet is pulled agonizingly tight around his thigh and, at the same time, glorious darkness overtakes him.

(*)

The smooth, comforting feel of the biobed is beneath him. Blinking his eyes as he comes to, he groans. His shoulders are stiff, and he can tell his leg is wrapped but he can't feel anything from it – numbed with what he can only assume is local anesthetic. His hands are bandaged as well, feeling strangely tingly.

The first sight that greets him when he finally opens his eyes all the way is Bones' worried face staring down at him. "How are you feeling, kid?" his friend asks him, checking Kirk's pupils with the light of a pointer.

He brushes the pointer aside with one of his bandaged hands, blinking up at Bones as his eyes refocus after the bright light. "The security team? How – are they okay?"

Tightness in his chest as Bones shakes his head, unable to meet his eyes. He pushes down the sorrow and anger that well up at their loss, as a spike of adrenaline-laced fear pumps through his system. His hands are obviously raw, his shoulders unbelievably sore and his leg probably has a row of holes punched in it – but he's certainly woken up on a biobed in much worse condition. He sits up feeling light-headed and grimacing at the protests his body gives him.

"That thing's teeth sliced open your femoral artery, and you lost a lot of blood," Bones grumbles, as he pushes Kirk back down onto the bed. "You're in no condition to be running around on whatever fool idea you have in your head."

"I have to get the rest of my people off that planet!" Kirk snarls, peeling his friend's hands off his arms so he can move. "I'm not here so you can babysit me, I have a job to do!"

A flash of hurt travels across Bones' features, before he turns away to hide his expression. "The damn hobgoblin is down there, right now, taking care of that. Which is why he's not here, like he normally would be."

Kirk takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He knows he can trust Spock to get his people off the planet before any more attacks can occur.

As he lies there, he feels Bones fussing with the dressing on his leg and his intuition kicks in. He's being far too quiet – there's something Bones isn't saying.

"What's up, Bones?"

"Nothing," the doctor replies gruffly, refusing to meet his eyes.

"There is. What is it?"

Bones spins suddenly to face him, his eyes glaring, his face drawn. "I nearly lost you on that fucking godforsaken planet, kid. If you'd been on the ground when that beast appeared, we wouldn't be having this conversation." The doctor turns back to his task, hands working with less care than he usually evinces with patients.

It's obvious by his actions that there's more that Bones isn't letting on. "I'm here. So what's the big deal?"

Kirk can tell his friend is clenching his jaw, as the muscles in his face bunch in response.

"Bones?" he says softly.

All the tension drains out of Bones, his shoulders sagging as he deflates. "You've just lost two men, kid. This isn't the right time—"

The weight of their loss is waiting to crush Kirk. But if there's one thing command training taught him, it's that a captain must deal with the here and now, regardless of what may have just taken place. Wallowing in regret can lead to poor command decisions.

"Tell me," he pleads. "When is it ever the right time? I want to know. You're my best friend—"

"Am I?" the doctor questions, unexpectedly. "You sure about that?"

Kirk feels a stab of annoyance at what Bones is insinuating. "Yes. You are." As he speaks, he has a moment of epiphany, as he thinks about his friend's words, instead of just reacting to them. He frowns as he realizes that he's been neglecting Bones. "I'm sorry. I've just been so busy with Spock that I –" he begins, contrite, and then he promptly shuts his mouth. He remembers the whispered conversation with Spock earlier this afternoon. The moment of closeness that Bones would have definitely seen.

Bones glances at him, hurt clearly apparent but paired with speculation in his eyes. "Of course, _he_ gets to see you whenever he damn well pleases – but the only time this 'old friend' gets to see you is when he has babysitting duty. I know you. I know your tells, kid. There's something going on. You might as well just spill the beans now, I'm already on to you."

He gulps, looking away. "Ummmm." His voice trails off, as he glances at Bones from the corner of his eye. The doctor has his arms crossed over his chest, and his fingers are tapping on his elbow. Kirk knows he owes Bones an explanation for his recent absence. Resigned, he stares blankly up at the ceiling as he admits what he never expected to have to. "I may or may not have begun developing feelings for a certain half Vulcan."

Risking another glance, he is treated with Bones' eyes bugging out of his head. All traces of hurt have disappeared, and his friend looks like he can't quite decide between disgusted and intrigued.

"I don't even want to _know_ how the hell that started. Or what you see in that green-blooded hobgoblin," he mumbles, and then stutters to a stop, an incredulous expression on his face. "H-how?"

Kirk grimaces, not really wanting to discuss things, but somehow relieved that at least somebody else knows. "I don't know, Bones. He's just so…well, to coin a term, fascinating. Unbelievably smart and deep and incredibly funny in his own way," Kirk says, a smile appearing on his lips despite the loss that is still coiled around his heart. Then his smile turns sly, as he adds, "And have you seen him in those tight pants? That ass is to die for."

He sees a mock shiver, as Bones processes that new information.

"Don't wanna think about that." A shake, followed by a glare – eyebrow raised. "We are talking about _Spock_ here, right?"

"Yeah," Kirk admits with a real grin. "Spock."

The skepticism doesn't disappear, as Bones gives him an unintentionally wistful look. "Then I won't complain too often about not seeing you as much. Just…we should get together for drinks, okay?"

Reaching up against the protest of his creaking shoulder, Kirk gives his friend's arm a reassuring squeeze with a bandaged hand. "I'm sorry, Bones. And we will definitely have a few drinks on my next night off. I promise."

A grumbled comment, too low for Kirk to hear, and then Bones turns once more to his PADDs. "And I know how worried you are about the rest of the landing parties, so I'll give you this. Even though you looked like hell when you came in, and required a quick surgery to fix the artery, the leg and hands responded well to the regenerators. You're not in shock, and you didn't rip any of your shoulder muscles. That means you don't really need me to babysit you, and after another hour or so to finish the regenerating, you'll be cleared to check on everything that's been happening to evacuate the planet."

Kirk gives Bones' arm another squeeze before letting his hand drop back to the blanket. "Thank you."

Satisfied, the doctor turns to leave. He pauses at the door, and twists to regard his friend once more. "But _Spock_ , kid?"

Kirk resists the urge to comment, instead just sticking his tongue out at Bones. The doctor grins back, and is still shaking his head as he disappears into his office.

(*)

Since everything regenerated properly, and he didn't actually break anything, he's allowed out of Sickbay later on that day. He does find himself back in the wheelchair, though – there was, a significant amount of muscle damage and blood loss, and Bones does not trust Kirk not to overextend himself if he's left on his own two feet.

He's also supposed to be spending the rest of the day resting– to build up blood volume – but if he's going to behave and stick to his wheelchair, he's certainly not going to be stuck in his room by himself the entire time. This is the first time he's lost any men under his command, and he doesn't want any time to dwell until everyone is safely back on the ship. First he stops by the Bridge where Uhura tells him that the evacuation is 90% completed, and then he's left at loose ends. He can't do anything useful up here – especially as his wheelchair won't navigate the various steps around the bridge – and Bones isn't going to let him down to the planet. Finally deciding to satisfy his requirement for movement and his need to know more about the animal that attacked him, he travels deep into the bowels of the ship – until he finds himself outside the doors to the biology laboratories.

Sterile and clean-smelling, they lack the taint of formaldehyde that usually lingers around such facilities. Sensing his presence, the doors automatically open to allow him admittance into the busy hallways. It is the middle of alpha shift, and the labs are full of personnel running back and forth, intent on one task or a dozen. He enters carefully, avoiding collisions as he uses the electronic controls – Bones' orders, as the handrails will be too rough on his new skin.

From the preliminary report he learned which of the biologists was assigned to dissect the animal, and he can recall the general location of where her office is located, so it only takes him a few minutes to get to his destination. Checking the nameplate once more, he confirms that he's at Dr. Saunders' office, and reaching up awkwardly from the wheelchair, he presses the door chime. As captain, he's well within his right to just enter, but that's not his command style.

"Come in!" A muffled cry floats through the door, followed by a thud and a grumbled curse as the door slides open for him and he enters the room.

At first, the room seems empty of anything but a desk and several skeletons that are on display. He's confused as to where the voice came from, until there is a muffled grumble that appears to be coming from underneath the desk. Rolling around to the other side, he finds Dr. Saunders in the hollow usually reserved for chairs. The diminutive woman is seated on the floor, eyes crunched closed while she rubs at the top of her head.

"Are you okay?" he asks, not able to keep the smile from his face at her predicament. He now knows what created the thud he'd heard moments before.

"Sorry, just a minute," she mumbles in a childlike voice. "I had a little…problem," she adds, not even looking up as she slips from beneath the desk. Once she's standing and out in the light, Kirk is reminded how small she is – barely coming up to his waist if he were out of the wheelchair. Her small body has childlike proportions, and her head is slightly too large for her slim form. But the most striking feature is not her size, but her hair – bright electric pink in color, and pulled back into two thick pigtails that seem to float magically above her head. His smile only gets larger as he recalls that this is definitely Dr. Saunders; he remembers the hair from his time around the campfires on New Vulcan.

She shakes herself, and then the head of the Biology section on _Enterprise_ opens both bright turquoise eyes to stare at her commanding officer in surprise. "Captain! I'm glad you survived!"

"Thank you. I'm glad I did, too," he replies, watching as she hops up on top of her desk and settles in. With the added boost of the desk, her head is actually above his while he's in the chair, and he can see the slight differentiations in her facial structure that mark her as alien.

She grins, the nostrils of her petite nose flaring slightly in happiness. "What can I do for you, sir?" Her legs swing back and forth beneath her, seemingly as full of energy as Kirk himself. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and the loss that is floating around in the back of his mind recedes still further in her presence.

"I am trying to get together all the information needed to make my own report of the incident," he explains, his hands skimming across the handrails on his wheelchair, "and I wanted to know what you'd found out about the creature and why we didn't know about them before now." As he talks, he's aware of the new skin of his hands feeling weird – extra soft, and it's strange not having the calluses he had built up previously.

"Ah! I see, sir! Well, lemme check…." Turning around, she rummages on her desk until she finds a PADD. "Ahh-ha!"

The preliminary report he'd read – which led him to her office – told him the details of what happened on the planet after he was transported to Sickbay. He already knew a full security team was detailed to go back to the cliff side, and even though they scoured the surrounding environment they found no signs of any similar beasts. Or any other animals – the area had been as barren of life as any other observed on the planet. Defeated, they stopped to retrieve their fallen comrades and the corpse of the animal that attacked Kirk and returned to the ship. But that's all the report had said – it had no further information on the animal itself, because Dr. Saunders hadn't submitted her report yet.

"Let me show you!" Turning the PADD so he can see it clearly, her three-fingered hands manipulate the controls, pulling up a 3-D representation of the thing that almost bit his leg off.

Zooming in on the creature's side, she highlights the ribcage which is standing out in stark relief. "This animal was starving. And do you see these scars, here?" She changes the view slightly, a deep gash appearing on the screen – one that looks like it had a long time to heal, though not cleanly. "It's covered in these scratches, which match up with the claws it has – which tell me it's been fighting others of its kind, and judging by the age of this wound, it's been fighting for a long time."

"Is there a large population of them, if there are so many obvious signs of infighting?" he interrupts, looking closely at the jagged scars.

"I don't think so," she replies, flexing her fingers over the controls as she contemplates, "But it's hard to tell. You can see the dirt caked here, on its flanks," the chubby finger points to soil ground deep in the fur, "I think the reason we didn't notice them before is they burrow deep in the ground during daylight to protect themselves from other predators."

Then the picture shifts, until the head appears, the three pairs of eyes clouded over in death. "See – the structure and size of the eyes clearly indicate these animals are nocturnal, which would lend further credence to the going-to-ground theory." The lips raise on a muzzle that is short and compact, like a mastiff or a bulldog, exposing the teeth beneath. "This is obviously a carnivore, high up in whatever food chain existed on the planet prior to the global extinction – but not at the top. As you can see, the length and thickness of the remaining canine is excellent for grasping their prey, not slicing –" She pauses, glancing at Kirk with a grimace on her face. "Sorry, Captain."

The muscles of his leg tense, and he has to force them to relax. "No apology needed, Doctor. I'm already patched up, good as new."

"That's great," she says with a nod. "Oh! And the 'doctor' title isn't necessary. Just call me Moe, sir – everyone else does." To emphasize her point, she shakes her head back and forth, her poofy pigtails flopping from side to side.

Kirk grins at her attitude, already deciding he likes this tiny person, as she returns to her explanation. "Also evident are the jagged molars – instead of the flattened teeth of an herbivore or an omnivore – used to slice through muscle and indicating that this animal is intended to survive solely on meat. Based on the teeth structure that's apparent, and those ridiculously huge and effective claws on its forelimbs, its main weapon was its claws, and its jaws were just intended to hold the prey in place until the other animal could be eviscerated."

A flash, as he realizes that's why he's alive, and his team isn't. They were on the ground, where the creature could bring its claws into play, while he had to be brought down before the animal could finish him off. His eyes cloud over as a stab of guilt shoots through him yet again, and he almost misses the pudgy finger that pokes at the screen. The picture zooms out all the way, rotating slowly inside the viewframe. "In this female's stomach I found evidence of plant matter that it had attempted to digest. This, combined with the scars and everything else, gave me a pretty accurate picture of what happened on that planet.

"What I believe occurred is that about ten years ago the hole in the ozone got a whole lot bigger. Our geologists found evidence of a massive volcanic eruption on the southern continent that apparently threw up vast amounts of naturally occurring chloro-fluoro-carbons that had been trapped below the planet's crust. It ate away at the ozone layer, causing radiation to rise to the level it is now. It slowly started killing off the insect life and prey animals on the planet. Now, the scars I witnessed on this specimen don't match those given during dominance displays, or normal in-fighting if these were pack animals. These are all deep, and indicate attempts to maim or kill. This particular species wouldn't have been the apex predators for their food chain – as those are usually the first animals to die off when something goes wrong – so I'm guessing they were somewhere middle to high of this complicated network. When their prey animals died off, they turned on each other. For the last couple of years, they've been surviving from a form of cannibalism and will keep going until there just aren't any left – and now they've been desperate enough to turn to vegetation to try and get their bellies filled with something."

Glancing up at him, her turquoise eyes turn sad. "She should not have been out during daylight." Kirk watches as Moe turns off the rotating display, making the PADD go dark. "The HQ is too big for even a pack of these guys to consider attacking during the night, but the security team was only two people. She shouldn't even have known they were there, but I think they must have been close to her den and woke her up, and a couple of security guards by themselves must have been enough to overcome any fear….She was desperate, and so she attacked. It wasn't her fault. She shouldn't be dead right now, but…if she hadn't attacked you, assuming there were no more of her kind around here for her to prey on, she'd be dead in a month, tops, from starvation. I haven't seen a situation this bad in close to one hundred years."

He resists the urge to lash out at her, to berate her because this creature attacked and killed two of his men. Intellectually he can recognize her point, and the sadness she feels at any animal dying unnecessarily – or worse, an entire species for that matter.

He focuses his thoughts on Moe. There isn't a lot known about her people – they're even more closed off than the Vulcans – but he knows they don't handle stress very well. The only reason she's on board is because it's the flagship, and her people wanted to be represented; she stays in the labs, where it's safe and she only has to worry about her experiments. And what she's told him is invaluable, and he's grateful, so he changes the subject with a joke to lighten the mood. "One hundred years? How old are you?"

She giggles, her little legs kicking out strongly – her momentary sorrow seemingly forgotten.

"I know I look like a kid to you Humans! Okay, so maybe I'm considered young by my people, too, but – I'm three hundred forty two!" she says with a grin, her head tilting to the side as she observes him. Her chubby hands are fingering the sides of the PADD.

"Really? You don't look a day over twelve," he teases, leaning forward so he can catch the twinkle in her eyes.

Moe dissolves into a fit of giggles, somehow sliding off the table in her mirth. He grins as he watches her, her laughter the most infectious he's ever heard. He can't help but chuckle when she finally gets a hold of herself, standing in front of him with her little fists placed firmly on her hips.

Then she leans forward, and pokes him on the arm. "You know what, Captain? You are definitely all kinds of awesome," she says with authority, a big grin on her face.

His answering grin gets even wider as the words sink in.

"You know…I like the sound of that."


	20. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** I really don't have anything interesting to say this time, but takes off the linebreaks if I don't have an A/N up here. So... xD

**A/N:** I really don't have anything interesting to say this time, but takes off the linebreaks if I don't have an A/N up here. So... xD

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Eight

* * *

**

"Mr. Spock, may I see you in my ready room?" Kirk asks, keeping his finger depressed on the intercom unit. His other hand is tapping insistently on the PADD he's been re-reading for the last hour as he tried to unravel everything contained therein.

"Certainly, Captain," comes the immediate reply, and only then does Kirk release the comm. button to close the channel. He stares, unseeing, at the PADD as he runs his hand through his hair. It's only a moment and then the chime announces his first's presence.

Pressing the button that opens the door, he watches Spock enter his ready room with the confidence the Vulcan always displays. Waiting until after the door is firmly closed, Kirk holds up the PADD for Spock to read. "Tell me what you think of this," he says, curious if the Vulcan will come to the same conclusion he did.

While Spock is reading, Kirk takes the opportunity to watch him without having to worry about it being obvious. Strongly muscled arms and broad shoulders, his long, tapered fingers wrap gently around the sides of the PADD. The Vulcan's head is bent forward slightly as he reads, his right eyebrow rising higher and higher as he gets further into the mission briefing.

When he's finished, he holds the PADD out to be retrieved; his eyes lift to meet Kirk's. "It appears as if the Admiralty is giving us a mission that does not take full advantage of our capabilities."

Snorting at the understatement, Kirk takes the PADD back – only to drop it on the desk as if it disgusts him. He folds his hands before himself, trying to contain the frustrated energy wringing through him.

"It's something that a courier should be taking care of." Giving up the cause as useless, Kirk stands and crosses to the empty patch of floor – pacing back and forth in the path that's been worn in the carpeting already. "We're ferrying two politicians through protected Federation space from Starbase 24 to Mandeler – which, as far as I can tell, is some backwater planet! We're the _flagship_ , and this is taking up time where we could be doing something important. They're turning us into a taxi service, that's what the Admiralty's done."

He can feel Spock's eyes on him as he paces, but he's unable to meet them. He has his suspicions as to why Starfleet is doing this to the _Enterprise_.

"I am certain, Captain," Spock replies, voice even and without overtone, "that the Admiralty has its reasons for sending the flagship on this mission. These politicians are important to the Federation, and it is very likely that we are being sent because of this."

Stopping with his back to Spock, he lowers his head and runs his hand through his hair. "Do you think it's because we lost two men?"

A pause, long enough to make him begin to worry, before Spock replies. "I do not follow your logic, Captain. What pertinence would our loss of crew have to this mission?"

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. It's been two weeks since his attack, two weeks since he lost people that were under his protection, and it hurts less but it's still a knife wound to the gut every time he has to talk about it. Pushing all emotion to the side, always to be dealt with later, he turns to face Spock once again.

"I think it's very important, Spock," he answers the question, meeting the Vulcan's eyes. "I think that they're seeing that I lost –" He cuts himself off and tries again. "We lost people on a simple survey mission, during broad daylight when it could have been easily avoided. If you ask me, that's the reason why they're giving us a mission we could accomplish with our eyes closed and the warp engine down. This is the kind of thing I expected four months ago, when we finished with New Vulcan – but not now, when we know how to work together as a cohesive whole. I think they're worried that we'll be useless for anything important. They're babying us."

The Vulcan blinks, once, before responding with, "And what if they are?"

His hand bunches into a fist before he's conscious of it, and he has to force the fingers to relax. "Because we don't need it, damn it."

"The Admiralty is considering your entire crew in its choices, Captain," Spock murmurs, and Kirk can see those dark eyes intent on the hand at his side. "I have discussed the outcome of the last mission with Lt. Uhura, and what she has told me about the crew's reactions is logical, and pertinent to this conversation. Dr. McCoy has informed you that a number of crew have sought bereavement counseling following the loss of their colleagues. She believes that the reason some are having difficulty coping is that the deaths have come so soon after the _Narada_ battle. The two deceased crewmen had made friends and were considered colleagues by many throughout the ship during the 4.53 months since we departed Earth. She believes they require a time of adjustment to their loss, and the reality that this will happen again."

The Vulcan pauses, his eyes alighting on the PADD lying on Kirk's desk, speculation in their depths. "They are mandating shore leave when we arrive at Mandeler, are they not?" His eyes return to Kirk's, who shifts his shoulders under Spock's gaze, uncomfortable.

He sighs, defeated by the logic in the argument. They have been working together so well, handling missions that would have broken other crews, that sometimes he forgets that many of his people are as unseasoned as he is. That they, too, are flung out of their element and have to deal with new realities on a regular basis. And that not all of them have the command training he has, and are not as well equipped to deal with the loss of fellow crew members.

"One week, rotating shifts," Kirk says, lifting his hand to rub the rest of the tension out of his neck.

Spock nods, a satisfied look in his eyes. "Then my logic is sound. They are giving us a straightforward mission, for the purpose of giving our crew time to recover and return to full performance. It is not a response to any incompetency on your part, if that is what your commentary about the circumstances surrounding their death was about to imply."

A small, sheepish grin hovers around the corners of Kirk's lips, as he shrugs the rest of his worry away. He had been afraid of that – is always afraid of that – as the months tick by and he gets closer and closer to the end of his year. Their deaths could have been avoided, but if Spock believes that the Admiralty doesn't see it that way, that's enough for him.

"Are you sure?" he asks, allowing some of his uncertainty into his voice.

"I am unable to speculate on either the strategic thinking or the motivations behind the decisions of certain senior StarFleet staff," Spock replies, the words coming easily. "However, I am able to reassure you that following my review of the reports of all three survivors, all necessary protocols were followed. There was nothing incorrect about their actions, and the resulting deaths were unavoidable. While you, as commanding officer, are held accountable for what occurred, no-one was at fault, and the Admiralty is aware of this fact."

Holding back his automatic protest that there must have been _something_ he could have done differently to prevent their deaths, he allows the words to do what was intended – reassure him. His smile may be shaky, but it's wider as he walks up to Spock.

Kirk stops a comfortable distance away, the ever-present need to touch the Vulcan suppressed with the ease of long habit as he smiles into those dark eyes. "Thanks, Spock. I needed to hear that."

The Vulcan nods. "As your first officer, it is my duty to ensure your continued well-being, Captain."

It's hard to stop his first response to that from coming out, but he manages. Jerking his head toward the door, he answers with what is safe instead. "Come on, let's give the crew the good news – shore leave for a week!"

* * *

Eyes trying to take in everything at once, he stands by the side of the throughway, waiting less than patiently. After picking up the politicians at Starbase 24, it was a simple matter to ferry them to their destination. Mandeler likes to think it will someday be the next Risa. But from what Kirk's heard, it's not as pretty, and not as cultured. He believes that it has the possibility to be the planet everyone who can't afford Risa goes to visit on holidays, but that'll be after about a decade of work. Right now it's a little too loose, a little too dirty, and a bit too unrefined. But that's why the politicians wanted to come here – the potential, and the ability to exploit it.

He sighs deeply, relishing the fact that there isn't any tension left in his body. Changing his mind after only a day on the planet, Kirk now firmly believes that the shore leave was a good idea all around. Even if they didn't have the loss to deal with, his people needed some time to relax and relieve stress. He glances at Bones, standing beside him, and smiles at the doctor – all traces of his usual grumpiness have disappeared.

Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Kirk can't help but grin. "I've had a good time with you, Bones." As repentance for ignoring Bones, Kirk spent all four days of his leave with him, and they spent their time running across the planet and exploring as much as possible. This is the last day of their freedom, and the only day they'll intentionally run into other members of the crew – Uhura and Spock should be meeting up with them at any moment. The Vulcan had not wanted to participate in the shore leave, but after some cajoling Kirk had finally gotten him to agree to taking two of the days allotted.

Snorting, but without his usual force behind it, Bones glances at Kirk. "Yeah, kid, me too. Makes me wish we could spend more time planet-side."

He knows the comment comes mostly from Bones' still present astraphobia, more than a desire to stay on the planet. Kirk has seen the doctor when he's in his element, the calm in the middle of the storm that is Sickbay in a crisis – and knows that his friend wouldn't want to be anywhere else. In that regard, he's very much like Scotty. The engineer sacrificed his whole leave so he could make the upgrades to their cabins that he'd promised – he didn't want to waste the opportunity presented by large numbers of the cabins being unoccupied at a time while their owners were on leave.

"Not me, Bones – stuck in this place any longer, and I'd start to get bored," he admits, "and you know what trouble I get into when _that_ happens!" he adds, knowing it'll make the doctor laugh.

His friend chuckles, and then notices Uhura has appeared beside him. She gives Bones one of her winning smiles, and then turns to Kirk as she responds to his comment. "But, Kirk – you're always bored. That's what makes you so dangerous."

Returning the smile, his eyes are only on her a moment before alighting on Spock at her side and he has to resist the urge to sigh in contentment. Spock looks very much…like Spock, but a little more relaxed around the eyes.

His grin widens, as he addresses her soft jibe, "Yup, yup, that's me – boredom is a sign of being too intelligent for the subject matter. Isn't that right, Spock?"

The Vulcan is watching him, traces of humor in his expression as he replies with, "While Vulcans are not prone to boredom, it is certainly true of Humans, _ne ki'ne_."

The word creates a spot of heat in Kirk's belly, warming him with the thought of having connections – of belonging. He ducks his head to hide the blush that he can feel on his cheeks – more from Bones than anyone else, as he can feel his friend's laughing eyes upon him.

Bones sniggers at his discomfort, turning to view the entrance to the bazaar – their reason for meeting here, in this place. "If you three are done with your hellos, I wanna go inside – my bones aren't getting any younger while we stand here."

Expecting a comment from Uhura about how the doctor isn't old at all, Kirk's grin gets wider. Then it falters, as no response is forthcoming. Reaching out a hand to brush her elbow in question, he freezes as he sees her stiffen. Without comment, or even a glance in his direction, she hooks her arm in Bones', and begins walking towards the bazaar.

Confused, Kirk watches her for a few moments more – until a wash of heat at his side signals that Spock has moved close. He glances up into warm mahogany eyes that look genuinely pleased to see him, and all thoughts of Uhura's odd behavior escape him.

Walking side by side, barely a breath of space between them, they slip into comfortable conversation as they follow the couple into the bazaar.

(*)

Kirk can't really be faulted if watching Spock is infinitely more interesting than digging through the stalls in the bazaar. The only time he was distracted was at the booksellers stall – actual, antique books from Earth that somehow found their way onto this out of the way planet. But once he made his purchases, and was clutching his bag protectively to his chest, it was back to watching Spock.

The four friends threaded their way through the aisles of the bazaar, past many sellers with wares both familiar and extraordinary, and are now lingering in the section at the back – where the livestock and produce are kept together.

Kirk shifts the bag in his arms, resting its weight on a hip as he observes Spock. The Vulcan is currently occupied in a stall that sells small animals, the different creatures in cages covering its tables. His eyes are focused, intent, as he moves around the stall from animal to animal, until he makes his way back towards the entrance.

But the last animal on the table catches his attention, and he pauses to stare – obviously fascinated – as he catalogs her movements. Kirk can't help but grin when he realizes what mesmerized the Vulcan, taking the step that puts him right at Spock's side. Aware of Kirk's presence, but seemingly unwilling to stop watching the animal, Spock asks, "I am unfamiliar with the breed of this feline."

Leaning forward with a grin, he whispers in the Vulcan's ear. "That's a ragdoll. They were a very popular breed created in the late 1900s, known for being big, and very sweet."

This particular specimen is a very plump seal-point female, her leg pointing straight up in the air as she cleans the white toes on her other foot with a delicate pink tongue. Spock's eyes track her every movement, but – and it's probably just Kirk's imagination, but still – his head seems to tilt infinitesimally closer to Kirk's presence at his ear.

Breathing in the unique smell of the Vulcan, Kirk's content to wait right there while Spock watches the cat, but a soft murmur interrupts his revelry. Spock asks him, "I have had little contact with her species, and never in a relaxed setting. She appears concerned with her level of cleanliness – is this typical?"

He chuckles, his breath making the hairs around Spock's pointed ear shift gently, as he replies, "That's what the common belief is, anyway. Cats are supposed to be all clean and stuck up, while dogs are dirty and dopey. That's one of the reasons they're supposed to have a rivalry."

At his words, Spock's behavior changes – instead of leaning towards the cat with interest, he shifts away. He blinks once, turning to watch Kirk. "Are you implying that this animal is the enemy of Archie?"

Kirk can't help but smile at the concern in those eyes, which is obvious to him. "Well, that's what the myth is. I've seen plenty of cats and dogs that get along just fine."

The dark hair moves as Spock's head shakes back and forth, and he shifts his body so he's no longer facing the cat. No longer inches from Spock's ear, Kirk blinks as he stares into wide mahogany eyes. The Vulcan is so close, such a minute distance between them, all he would have to do is lean forward and – but he stops that thought before it finishes percolating, instead focusing on Spock's words.

"That is not acceptable, Jim. Anything that would interfere with Archie's state of being shall not be considered," Spock says, the words said with finality as if a decision has been arrived at. Kirk's brow furrows in surprise, not expecting that type of reaction from the Vulcan. But before he can comment further, or ask what options have been discarded, there's a small, hard elbow digging into his side.

Turning to face whoever interrupted him, his sharp comment dies on his tongue. At some point during his conversation with Spock, Uhura had come up on his other side without his awareness. There's a brittleness to her expression that makes him pause, but instead of addressing whatever is bothering her she holds up her hands.

Nestled inside them is a small, brown, incredibly furry creature. There's so much fuzz it's not possible for Kirk to tell where its face is – or even if it has arms and legs. "What do you think?" she asks, holding it right up in his face so he can get a good look.

Gently, he pushes her hands down with both of his, looking at the creature with curiosity. He can feel Spock looking over his shoulder, also observing the animal. The creature vibrates in her hands at the movement, making a strange cooing noise.

Uhura's face breaks into a smile at the coo, and Kirk can feel himself shiver. He's seen that expression on girl's faces before, and knows what it means. He can't help but give a token protest, knowing it's futile. "But it's a furball! Literally!"

Her eyes rise to meet his, and he can see something hiding beneath her falsely cheerful façade. "I think he's cute – I'm taking him back with me." And without another word, or waiting for a response from Kirk, she walks away to haggle with the shopkeeper.

His hand runs through his hair, then settles at the back of his neck to rub at the tense muscles. The Vulcan behind him keeps his silence as Uhura's credits change hands, not even acknowledging Bones' presence when the doctor walks up beside them.

"Hey, you two – I'm getting sick of this section, can we go somewhere else?" Bones asks, completely oblivious to the silence that's fallen over the friends. His smile brightens as Uhura joins the group again, carrying a box with holes punched in it.

Slipping her arm through Bones' elbow once again, she tells the doctor, "Come on, Leo, I don't want to waste the rest of our leave. Let's spend some time together, just the two of us."

Without saying goodbye to either Spock or Kirk, she turns and begins leading Bones away. Shrugging in confusion, Bones waves over his shoulder before the two of them disappear into the crowd.

Spock, still standing beside him, clears his throat. "Jim, I must also take my leave. I have fulfilled your request, and spent time away from the ship. Now I must return to my duties, if you will excuse me."

Still out of sorts from Uhura's odd behavior, Kirk can do nothing but say goodbye and watch the Vulcan move towards the exit to the bazaar. He's left, confused and frustrated, to spend his remaining night of leave alone.

* * *

Kirk curses quietly to himself when he realizes he's running late again. It's their first practice since his own shore leave ended, and he planned to arrive early – but, as always, his duties as captain got in the way. Arriving at the door to the rec room, he punches in the entry code and slips into the room, sighing to expel some of his frustration. He finds Spock already inside, moving slowly through the beginning warm ups in the center of the mats.

The Vulcan glances up as Kirk enters; his left eyebrow raises a fraction of a degree. "You are prompt as ever, I observe."

A grunt, as he tries and fails to dredge up a half-smile as he deposits his towel on the bench. He must be especially late, for Spock to have commented on it. To avoid wasting any more time, he kicks off his shoes and joins his friend in the center of the mat, replying as he mirrors the Vulcan's stance. "I'm sorry, Spock. But Scotty needed me to sign off on one last requisition form, but I don't think half his requests are even legal, so it took much longer than I expected –"

Not breaking the movements of the form, Spock pivots so he's facing Kirk. "Apologies are unnecessary, Jim. You appeared worried when you entered the facility, and I was simply attempting to lighten your mood with humor. It is obvious that the effort failed."

"Thanks. So you're learning sarcasm, now? Not bad." The attempt at a half-smile stretches itself into a real grin at Spock's admission.

"Indeed," Spock replies, the eyebrow at a definite tilt now.

And then there's no time for talking, as they flow into the more complex warm-ups – the string of attacks that Kirk has already mastered. During their mission aboard the _Narada_ , Kirk had not gotten time to watch Spock in motion, and had not realized how beautiful the intricate steps of _suus mahna_ are. Now, after progressing through the skills required for the martial art, he can finally see. Simple, fluid moves, circular motions that are deadly in their beauty. And those are just the standard steps. The forms and attacks used by the ancient _S'Kanderai_ are truly an art form, and in comparison the moves of _suus mahna_ appear like the steps of a child first learning to walk.

And they're _hard_ , and at this point still require all of his concentration. As the last of the new forms he's learned comes to a close, he is left breathing heavily as he holds the last position. Kirk is coated in sweat, the Vulcan beside him with not a hair out of place, and they've only just begun for the evening. They've simply practiced the forms and separate moves he's learned well – the rest of their time is allotted to teaching him new and consistently more dangerous steps.

With a bow, they leave the stance, and Spock motions him closer with the shift of a hand. Bouncing lightly on his feet to keep the blood moving, Kirk stops in front of the Vulcan – a comfortable distance between the two.

"I am aware that you already know some of the most destructive of moves," Spock begins, hands clasped lightly behind his back as he explains. "And that your training includes the advanced forms of the _S'Kanderai_. But with the intention of being thorough with your education, I will continue to instruct you in all the moves of the simplified _suus mahna_.

Even though internally he's frustrated at being held back, still, Kirk nods his head. He consoles himself with the thought that more teaching means more time with Spock – which is always a good thing.

"This next move should be simple for you to pick up," Spock continues, "and involves one of our more advanced throws." The Vulcan's hands reappear from behind his back, and he is carrying a little rubber knife that was not evident before. "Holding this, come at me as if you were attempting to pierce my chest cavity."

Taking the small dagger, Kirk glances down at it with a grin. He can assume that Spock doesn't want him to attack as he actually would, and instead use a standard frontal assault. Kirk moves forward in one of the most basic of the knife attacks he knows.

As he's done countless times before in these practices, Spock slows down his movements so Kirk can catch everything he does. Grasping Kirk's wrist, Spock gives it an expert twist – making the knife clatter to the floor. A smooth exaggerated pivot, and Spock is tucked into Kirk's chest. The full length of his back is pressed against Kirk's form, and the Human has to force himself to ignore the contact so he can focus on the demonstration.

So close, so much warmth begging him to be lulled into distraction. The subtle hint of coriander and that other, unnamable scent, waft up from Spock's hair, as the Vulcan's elbow stabs backward. A sharp, tempered blow aimed at his solar plexus and then a strong hand is grasping his shoulder.

He barely has time to register the hand, like a burning brand on his skin, before he's flying through the air. Instinct kicks in, and he lands harmlessly – laid out flat on the ground. The Vulcan drops to his knees, twisting the move so that the hand Spock never released is well and truly pinned. An application of pressure sends shooting pain up Kirk's arm, making his back arch, and a well-placed palm strike would have effectively blinded him – had this been real.

His fingers frantically tap to signify he feels the pain in his arm, and Spock holds it for just a moment before releasing him. Then the Vulcan is rising gracefully to his feet, in one effortless, fluid motion, gazing down at Kirk where he lies on his back.

"Is that sufficient, Jim? Or will you require an additional demonstration?" he murmurs, as Kirk grins up at the Vulcan.

Springing lightly to his own feet, he shakes the impacts out of his bones. Simple enough. "Nah, I think I'm good. It's only a basic throw."

Spock tilts his head slightly to the side, his expression betraying that this is the answer he was expecting. He nods, and then the Vulcan leans down to retrieve the fake dagger, giving Kirk an unintentional – and utterly glorious – view of his ass. Kirk admires the view for a couple moments, until his body's automatic response makes him have to glance away. Forcing his body back under his control, he reminds himself that they have to practice still, and he must focus. That he's going to have to press the full length of his body against Spock's to accomplish the throw.

His control is risky at best when Spock is upright once again, and standing with the dagger ready – but he tries. Miming Spock's movements of just minutes before, he goes through the motions of the first part of the take down. He's able to work through the first half of the move with ease, but when he gets to the actual throw his lack of concentration costs him.

Instead of using his own momentum to toss Spock over his shoulder, he gets lost somewhere in the hip motion. The Vulcan ends up suspended half over Kirk's shoulder when his momentum runs out; his legs cannot support the extra weight, and they tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Warmth all around him, as Spock falls on top of him like a blanket. The hardness of the Vulcan's muscles contrast deliciously with the feel of smooth fabric. Kirk tries desperately to keep his mind blank as Spock extricates himself from the tangle.

And then he is looking up at the Vulcan once again, only this time Spock holds out his hand to help Kirk back to his feet. The humor in his eyes is blazing clear and bright – evident for anyone to see. It makes Kirk's chest constrict almost painfully, as he grasps the proffered hand.

"If it is so simple a throw, Jim, I hesitate to inquire as to what occurs when the move is considered difficult." Even the Vulcan's _tone_ is hiding mirth beneath, the liquid low notes dazzling Kirk's ears. He cannot help but grin in response, his teeth flashing as he is pulled effortlessly to his feet. Released once again, he gets ready for Spock's next attack.

Only then, when he is standing and watching the Vulcan intently, does he realize something. Kirk gulps, but it does not go away. At the base of his tongue, tickling the back of his throat, is the delicate hint of apples. Crisp and sweet-sour like the delicious Granny Smiths he used to enjoy when he was back home in Iowa.

But he hasn't tasted an apple in nearly a year.

(*)

"Good night, Jim," Spock says when the practice is officially over. "I will see you tomorrow at the start of shift."

Standing up from the bench, Kirk tosses his towel onto his shoulder and steps closer to the Vulcan. "Hey, Spock – I thought we could play a game of chess tonight."

The Vulcan pauses, his eyes resting on the rec room door. "I have duties to which I must attend, and cannot spend any more time on recreational activities this evening."

Surprised, the muscles of Kirk's shoulders tense as he replies, "But we haven't had a game in over a month! There aren't any urgent experiments in the Science labs. What could possibly need your attention?"

Kirk watches as Spock's posture shifts – no longer relaxed, the Vulcan is at parade rest, with his hands clasped behind his back. It's almost as if he's preparing for a confrontation, which makes Kirk tense in response.

"Not only am I responsible for two key roles on this ship – both Science Officer and First Officer – I have been assisting you with the captain's requisite paperwork," Spock explains, his voice even and neutral. "All three duties require further attention before my responsibilities can be fully discharged."

Using a hand to rub a muscle in his shoulder, Kirk narrows his eyes at the Vulcan. "Are you telling me that, because you're helping me, you're behind in your other duties?"

Spock nods. "Prior to this visit to Mandeler, it was not an issue. I have been accomplishing the additional work during the part of my shift allocated to sleep cycles –"

"Wait a second," Kirk interrupts, holding up a hand to stop the flow of Spock's words. "You've been giving up sleep so you could do my work for me?"

The Vulcan blinks. "This is an incorrect statement. Vulcans do not require as much rest as Humans, therefore I was not depriving myself. I would not have made the offer of assistance had I not had sufficient time available. What was not factored into my original time-management equation was the period of shore leave. It is why I requested to remain on the ship. You may recall I stated that additional rest was unnecessary – which is accurate, as I am fully capable of meditating to accomplish the same ends."

Unintentionally mirroring Spock's motions, Kirk tilts his head to the side. Grinding his teeth together, he says, "The shore leave I convinced you to take." He can remember the conversation quite clearly, especially the part about not being able to enjoy himself if his friends weren't also having fun – even if he wasn't with them. Kirk resists the urge to smack himself on the forehead for not listening to Spock. He simply thought the Vulcan was being stubborn, and even pulled out the brother card to convince Spock to come along.

He can see Spock visibly shift, retreating still further into his proper Vulcan mannerisms. Internally, Kirk kicks himself – this is not how he should be handling this, at all. It's not Spock's fault that he had too much work to be able to afford a break.

"You're the only officer on a constitution class starship who carries out two of the most senior roles. Is being a First and a Science officer too much?"

"Under ordinary circumstances the work required would fall well within my time parameters," Spock comments stiffly. "However, eighty three percent of my science staff are cadet graduates with no line experience. Their training has been intensive and has been an additional, and not inconsiderable, drain on my time. At this stage, the training is yielding significant results, the consequence of which has been a gradual decline in the need for my input. I anticipate that by the end of the mission's first year, the additional time required for staff training will be negligible and I will be able to carry out the two roles with greater ease."

"And meanwhile, on top of all that, you've also been coaching me in my role and giving me martial arts training." Sighing, he runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Spock," he says, changing his tone completely. His friend opens his mouth, but before he can speak a word of protest Kirk continues, "And I know you want to tell me that you willingly took on the responsibilities, but that's just way too much. As your brother, I shouldn't be putting that extra pressure on you by increasing your work – we're supposed to share equally and ease burdens, not increase them."

Nodding to himself, he vows to not make this mistake again. "How about this – I'll take back the rest of my paperwork, if you meet me in my quarters so we can have our chess game?"

"It is acceptable for a First to be burdened with more responsibilities. It is not acceptable for a Captain to be so – you must be able to carry out your essential tasks," Spock replies, and Kirk can't quite tell if it's meant as a response to his apology, or his offer. Shrugging, he decides it doesn't make a difference, anyway – he's going to get what he wants, and fix this.

He wants to clasp Spock's shoulder, but doesn't. Instead, he counters with, "I was told by Dr. Saunders the other day that I'm – and I quote – 'all kinds of awesome.' And she's right, because I've been doing this captain thing for a little while now and I personally think I'm excelling at it. And I _definitely_ know that I'm capable of taking back the rest of my paperwork without getting bogged down by it anymore."

The Vulcan's eyebrow rose at the first sentence, and by the end of Kirk's little speech he can clearly see the humor returning to Spock's eyes. Grinning, not waiting for a response, Kirk walks toward the door, and on to his quarters – knowing that Spock will follow.


	21. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** I know this chapter has taken forever, and I apologize. Real life has been attacking me with a vengeance: I'm working a full time job, school started back up again (and one of my classes is pre-calculus) and I'm in the middle of moving. My beta has also been very busy with real life, so it seemed like whenever I had a free moment she was occupied!

**A/N:** I know this chapter has taken forever, and I apologize. Real life has been attacking me with a vengeance: I'm working a full time job, school started back up again (and one of my classes is pre-calculus) and I'm in the middle of moving. My beta has also been very busy with real life, so it seemed like whenever I had a free moment she was occupied!

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Nine

* * *

**

They walk silently, side by side, through the ship. Their ears are busy listening for any odd noise, their eyes searching every bulkhead and seam. Kirk is focused, every bit of his energy intent on finding anything that may be amiss. This part of _Enterprise_ is not occupied at the moment, but for an odd crew member leaving or returning from their cabin, so the only noise they hear is the tap-tap of Archie's nails on the smooth floor as he walks besides them. The people passing the trio do not interrupt, instead simply nodding at their captain and the chief engineer as they make their rounds.

It's Scotty's job to make regular visual inspections of the ship, to make sure everything is functioning properly in case the sensors miss an important signal. And even though Kirk isn't required to come along, he's made it a point to go with Scotty on his trips through the ship as often as his own schedule allows. He loves the opportunity to see every part of his lady, and is always hoping to glean an interesting tidbit of knowledge from the Scotsman on their rounds; and the engineer appreciates Kirk's keen interest in his ship.

They pass a pair of pretty female crew members, and Scotty greets them happily. Kirk can see Scotty following the two with his eyes, watching as they round a corner and get out of sight. Only then does the Scotsman poke him in the side with an elbow. "Those lasses are fraternizing," he whispers, his eyes large as he states what was obvious from their body language.

Kirk grins, patting his friend on the shoulder, recognizing Ensigns Taft and Olivarez. "Good for them," he replies, using the hand on the engineer's shoulder to turn him back to their task. "The crew's so young, they're going to be pairing off, and – wait a second. You're the one who sent up their request to share quarters. Why are you so interested?"

Coughing to clear his throat, the Scotsman allows himself to be led down the hallway once again. "Ah dunno…well. Do ye think they'd mind a third?"

Unable to stop a chuckle at the hopeful note in his friend's voice, Kirk shakes his head. "I'm sorry to dash your hopes, Scotty – but they looked pretty exclusive to me."

His shoulders sag for a moment, leading Kirk to continue with, "But I'm sure you'll find a lovely lass of your own," in an attempt to cheer up his friend.

"Aye, yer right," Scotty says, perking up considerably. "There're dozens o' possibilities onboard, if Ah give it some time."

"Exactly," Kirk replies, giving the Scot's arm a squeeze.

Only then does he notice the absence of nails clack-clacking and the warm presence at his side. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Archie several meters back, all his attention focused on a particular section of the bulkhead.

Scotty, who stopped beside Kirk, is also staring at the beagle. His eyes shoot a curious glance at his captain. "What's wrong with yer dog?"

Kirk shrugs, tapping on his thigh to get Archie's attention. The signal warrants a pair of warm brown eyes looking at him, but then a paw reaches forward and scratches at the metal, a soft whimper reaching the two Humans' ears.

Curious now – Archie's never ignored a command unless there's a good reason – Kirk steps up to the section of the bulkhead that has gotten the dog's attention. He kneels, all weight resting on his heels, as his eyes shift from the dog to the smooth bulkhead and back again. The Scotsman comes up behind him, an obvious frown on his face.

"Cap'n, Ah think yer wee doggie's a bit touched," Scotty grouches, crossing his arms over his chest. "This section is betwixt cabins – there cannae be anything wrong with the bulkhead, and the only thing there is the vent shaft."

Kirk shoots a glance in his direction, and has to suppress a smile as the Scotsman pauses to inspect the bulkhead, too. Careful, Kirk blocks everything out, and focuses back at the wall, freezing as there is a shuffling of some sort. The presence of a sound, just at the edge of his hearing range.

His eyes return to the dog just in time to see Archie's eyes shift – his point of interest changes several centimeters to the left. The engineer shakes his head, letting Kirk know he doesn't see anything odd.

"Definitely touched," Scotty confirms, and Kirk can see him watching the beagle as well. "Now 'is ghost is moving."

A slight frown between his eyebrows, Kirk stands up straight once again. Tapping on an elbow with the other hand, he turns to the engineer. "Archie isn't touched – he has the best nose I've ever seen on a dog. He must be smelling something through the bulkhead."

The Scotsman grunts, and looks at Kirk skeptically. "Sure Ah believe ye, Cap'n. It's not a ghost yer dog is followin', it's a bodach crawlin' through the vent shaft on its way to suck the life outta yeoman Rand."

Raising an eyebrow at the tone in Scotty's voice, Kirk returns the grunt. Even though he's trying to be serious, he can't help but chuckle at the Scotsman's joke. "I know what I'm talking about here, Scotty," Kirk replies, and then an idea hits him. He takes control of his expression, making it calculated to show just the right amount of speculation – he knows the Scotsman won't be able to resist. "And I can prove to you how good his nose is! I bet you he can find a scrap of dog treat on this ship, no matter where you hide it!"

A shrewd look flashes through the engineer's eyes, and he lights up at the mention of a bet. Kirk grins, crossing his arms over his chest. He knows he has Scotty's interest now.

"Ah highly doubt that – Ah know some right impossible hidin' spots, what with fiddling with the ship all the time," Scotty attests, virtually inflating as he boasts.

Secure in his confidence in Archie's abilities, Kirk counters with, "I'm sure you do, but they're no match for my dog."

"Then let's make this interestin'," the engineer replies, calculating in his head. "If'n the dog ken find my treat, next time we're in port, I'll cover yer drinks. An if 'e nae ken find it, then ye cover mine."

Kirk lets his grin widen even further, reaching out a hand towards the Scotsman. "It's a deal."

Shaking Kirk's hand, Scotty chuckles to himself with obvious glee. "And just to satisfy ye, cap'n, Ah'll have one of me techs check the vents later – we donnae want a blockage or summat."

They both continue down the hallway, back to their duties with a joke here and there – Archie trailing after.

(*)

With a contented sigh, he unceremoniously drops his tray on the table and plops down in the chair left empty for him. Scotty, on his right, scoots over a fraction of an inch to give him some elbow room. Kirk watches as Bones gives him a nod, seated across the table, but continues recounting whatever story he was currently occupied with. The Scottish engineer is mesmerized, leaning forward and not even looking at the food he is shoveling in his mouth.

One of the doctor's hands flails wildly, as he gets involved in the scene he's describing. With a grin, Kirk turns to Bones' left, to find Spock focused on the plate of vegetation in front of him.

"What's he got Scotty so caught up in today?" he asks, watching, fascinated, as the Vulcan cuts the tuber into small precise slices.

"Even though both men were present, they are discussing the outcome of the poker game we participated in Thursday evening. Apparently, the doctor is still unable to comprehend the results," Spock recounts, and he sounds relaxed even if he's not actively participating in the discussion. There has been a noticeable thawing in the relationship between Spock and Bones. Kirk wonders if it's because of his confession regarding his feelings for his First, as ever since then the doctor has made an effort to reduce his antagonism towards the Vulcan. From what he's able to tell, it seems to have helped quite a bit – they still take jibes at each other on a regular basis, but there isn't the hostility beneath the words that there used to be. And it's not just Bones and Spock; his entire senior crew is clearly starting to develop some deeper bonds, and regarding each other as more than simply colleagues.

Kirk chuckles and inserts himself seamlessly into the conversation. "Still can't believe it, Bones?"

His friend turns his attention to Kirk, shaking his head resolutely. "No, I can't! I never knew she had the capability to bluff like that!" he says, with an appreciative smile.

"I still can't believe that she'd pulled off that huge win against Sulu," Kirk adds his own admiration of her skills. The only ones that had not been surprised at her total sweep of the table had been Chekov – and Spock. Kirk glances at the Vulcan seated next to Bones, and grins. "I bet she learned her poker face from Spock."

One elegant eyebrow rises, and the Vulcan blinks slowly at the silence that suddenly engulfs the table.

The Scot is the one to break it. "Now, if'n ye know some tricks t' help, ye best be sharin' 'em, Spock," Scotty says, his voice almost a whine. "Ah've been losing an' losing, and Ah need a safe bet – that's why Ah started the bloody poker nights t' begin with!"

"I assure you, Mr. Scott," Spock replies, setting down his fork to address the engineer. "That any knowledge that I have regarding this pastime has been garnered from literature easily accessed through the ships databanks. Any skills demonstrated by Lt. Uhura are the products of her own abilities, and are not the result of any assistance on my part."

Laughing, Kirk picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. "See, Scotty, he can't help you with that and he can't help you find any better hiding spots for treats, either," he says around the mouthful of food. As he expected, Archie hadn't had any difficulty finding the hidden piece of cookie. Kirk is looking forward to their next stay at a planet, and an entire night of free drinks.

"Hiding spots for treats?" Bones cuts in, his eyebrow rising at the odd comment.

"A bet Ah thought was safe," Scotty grumbles, shaking his head. While his voice is pitched to sound disgruntled, there's a smile in his eyes. "The cap'n's dog is a wee bit touched – the bogey led 'im right to my hidey-hole."

A set of delicate hands place a tray on the table next to Bones, causing all four males to glance up at Uhura. "That's not fair, Scotty – it's not Archie that's touched, it's his master."

She smiles warmly at everyone, and sits down. Picking up the apple from her tray, the conversation continues while they eat. Kirk starts on his fries, watching her thoughtfully with a slight crease between his brows. The only one who he doesn't seem to be getting closer to is her – there's a sense of aloofness in her interactions with him that isn't present when she talks to anyone else. He thinks he knows why it's happening, can understand her reaction to the closeness that's been developing between Spock and him.

He's asked for Bones' opinion on the subject, as the doctor is closest to both of them – besides Spock, who Kirk certainly doesn't want to discuss this with. Bones had basically agreed with him, that he had to have a talk with her about it – but Kirk still can't find a time, or place, to broach the subject. Sighing to himself, he leans forward and snatches the cookie off Bones' plate. When the doctor gives him an angry glare, Kirk grins and takes a huge bite.

"Damn it, kid," Bones grumbles, a hurt look on his face. "I was looking forward to that!"

Talking around the mouthful of cookie, Kirk says, "I can see why. It's delicious." Then a thought occurs to him, and he pauses as he stares down at the cookie. "This isn't replicated, is it."

"No, it's not," Uhura murmurs, reaching across the table and plucking the remains of the cookie out of Kirk's hands. "And it wasn't intended for you – I made it for _him_."

Scotty is suddenly occupied with eating what's left of his food, and Spock remains silent. Kirk's mouth moves for a moment, but no words come out. It's quite obvious that she did something sweet for Bones – and he messed it up. He gulps, and then tries again. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

A snort from Bones, as he retrieves the cookie half from Uhura. He inspects it for a moment, and then takes an experimental bite. "Probably gonna get some kinda weird STD from finishing this thing," he grouches, and he's still chewing when he addresses Kirk again. "When do you ever think, kid? How often do I eat sweets?"

Before he can respond, an appreciative look settles on Bones' face, and he stares down at the cookie in surprise. "This really _is_ good. No, it's great!"

Kirk holds back the response he was contemplating, watching as Bones smiles at Uhura, genuine happiness radiating from him in a way Kirk has rarely seen.

"Really?" Uhura asks, all signs of annoyance disappearing as she smiles up at Bones. He nods enthusiastically before taking another bite, all his focus on the cookie.

An elbow bumping his right forearm catches his attention, and Kirk turns to give Scotty a questioning glance. The engineer grins at him, murmuring under his breath. "Tha' were a close one, lad."

Nodding, unable to disagree, Kirk decides to change the subject to a safe one. "Hey, guys. When are we going to hold the next poker night?"

"I have gone through the schedules, Captain," Spock says in his low voice, and Kirk shifts so he's facing the Vulcan. "And it appears that Thursdays at 2000 hours is the only time of the week we are all available simultaneously, barring any unscheduled shift alteration."

Kirk can't help but grin, a flush of warmth spreading from somewhere in his belly at the thought of Spock spending the time to figure that out. He must have enjoyed himself even more than he let on. "Thursdays it is then. Do we want to have the games in the rec room again, or in one of the conference rooms to make it more private? I vote conference room, so we can let our hair down – like we can't in front of the junior crew."

"While I concur regarding the privacy offered by the conference room," Spock replies, his brows drawing together infinitesimally, "the only member of your senior crew who has hair to let down is Lt. Uhura. And I am unsure how her doing so would affect the junior crew."

His mouth spreads in a grin, and he chuckles. "It's just an expression, Spock – it means we can relax and be ourselves."

"But, Captain, who else would we be if we are not ourselves?" An elegant eyebrow rises, and Scotty chuckles at Kirk's elbow.

"He's just teasin' ye, lad," the Scotsman answers, popping a piece of fried potato in his mouth. "An' I agree t' the conference room." With the rest of the table's consent, it's agreed, and for a moment there is silence except for a soft exchange between Uhura and Bones.

"What do ye have there, lass?" Scotty asks of Uhura during a lull in their conversation. There's an undercurrent of curiosity in his voice, and Kirk glances back across the table to see what the engineer finds so interesting.

Uhura has placed a small bag on the table, and at the engineer's question, takes out the furball she purchased at the bazaar. "I'm not sure what it's called in Standard, but I just couldn't resist taking it with me." With her slim, nimble fingers she pulls a slice of bread to bits and places the pieces on the table next to the blob. Kirk watches as it somehow moves itself over the food, wiggling itself as each piece of bread disappears. He thinks it's eating – but the thing doesn't have anything resembling a mouth, so he's not sure how the food is supposed to get inside it. Glancing to Bones' left, Kirk can tell that Spock is staring at the creature with evident fascination.

The engineer seated beside him noticeably stiffens, and Kirk can see a look of horror spreading over his face. "What're ye doin, lass?" he asks slowly, his hand twitching where it lies on the table.

At the obvious worry in his voice, Uhura glances up, puzzlement clear in the tilt of her eyebrows. "Feeding it, obviously."

"And this is nae yer first time feeding the wee thing?" he says slowly, carefully, as if dreading the answer.

"Of course not," Uhura replies, looking up at the Scotsman with confusion in her eyes, "I've had it for over a week – I can't let it starve!"

Shaking his head slowly, Scotty groans. "This cannae be good, captain. The lass has a tribble. And Ah know tribbles – they cannae cause naught but trouble!"

"But, Scotty, it's nothing but a furball. It doesn't even have any _eyes_ or a mouth that anyone's able to see! How can it cause us any problem?" Kirk knows his voice is also colored in bewilderment, as he fails to see anything about the situation that should be causing Scotty worry.

"I had one on Delta Vega. The little buggers replicate faster'n McCoy ken down a pint. They need to be caged, an' nae allowed t' eat," the engineer explains, his eyes on the last bread piece as it disappears.

Uhura rolls her eyes, picking the tribble up and putting it back in its carry bag. "Relax, Scotty. It's been with me the whole time I've had it on the ship, and there's only one of them, so there's nothing to worry about."

The chief engineer is still looking at her skeptically, so Kirk slaps him on the shoulder. Grinning, he adds, "See, Scotty? And if it does start to pop out little ones all of a sudden, I'm sure they'll just be in Uhura's bag and we'll be able to control them with no problems."

Looking Kirk in the eye for several moments, Scotty eventually nods. "Ye have a point, captain. But if something happens, on yer head be it. _And_ ye'll owe me ten bottles o' the galaxy's best liquor."

He gives the shoulder beneath his hand a squeeze. "Nothing will happen, Scotty. We can trust Uhura."

(*)

"Ouch!" Sulu cries, rubbing his sore forearm while he shoots a disgruntled look Kirk's way.

"Give up?" Kirk responds, as he hands over the pencil.

Grabbing the instrument with a huff, the pilot gets a focused look on his face. "Never!"

It's late afternoon, and any thoughts of lunch and furry blobs are far from Kirk's mind. He has beta shift this week, along with Sulu and Chekov, and they've met in one of the rec rooms to hang out before their shift begins.

The young Russian genius is reading a book on his PADD, but keeps glancing up as he and Sulu get progressively more focused. Finally he gives up, setting the PADD aside and turning to his two friends, the intense light of interest in his eyes. "What is zhis, you are doing?"

Easily taking a backseat, Kirk waits for Sulu to answer. Chekov is not left hanging for even a moment. "It's a game all American guys learn in grade school," he replies, trying to act all nonchalant – but obviously excited to bring the Russian into the conversation.

A confused expression appears on Chekov's face. "Explain, yes?"

And then Sulu turns completely around, all focus on the whiz kid. Kirk can't help but grin, not feeling the least bit put out. "You see, you take the pencil and hold it like _so_ , and the point is to flick it against your opponent's forearm as hard as you can," Sulu explains, miming the actions. "Winner is the last one left standing, or the one that breaks the pencil first."

Trepidation replaces the confusion, as Chekov glances at Sulu with fear in his eyes. "Zhe point of zhis game is to break zhe pencil on zhe other person?"

Sulu pauses, considering, before he shrugs – looking decidedly unfazed. "Yeah. I guess it is. But it's fun!"

The Russian seems less sure of the fact. Kirk can recognize the glint in Sulu's eye, and before things can barrel out of control he reigns in the enthusiastic pilot. "The point is not to _hurt_ the other person – not really," he breaks in, showing off the red mark on his arm. "But to hit one spot on their arm long enough where the sting makes them wanna quit. Broken pencil wins are just a big bonus!"

The fear fades, but confusion is still clear in the big brown eyes. "I guess zhat makes sense."

"Here," Sulu says, handing over the pencil. "You were watching Kirk and me just now, right?"

Chekov glances up at Sulu's question, a flush on his face. "Yes, I saw. But…."

"So you know how to flick the pencil properly," the pilot says, offering up his arm. "Give it a try." Kirk notices, with a grin, that it's the arm he _hasn't_ been flicking for the past thirty minutes.

Giving up the cause as hopeless to refuse, Chekov takes the pencil and holds it tentatively in the correct manner. Focused, his pink tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, he lines the pencil up with Sulu's arm and lets it fly.

Wincing, Sulu waves his arm to clear the sting. "Not bad, not bad! I think you'll be good at this game, Pavel!"

Kirk watches as a flush – happiness this time – washes over the whiz kid's face, and then fear enters his eyes again as he hands the pencil back to Sulu. But, gamely, the Russian pulls back his sleeve and offers his arm for retaliation. Kirk reaches out and taps Sulu's side under the table, out of Chekov's view, to warn the pilot to go easy on the younger man. Sulu gives him a glance, and a comforting grin, before readying the pencil.

And then he realizes he's an idiot, and never had to warn the pilot. "Now, this should smart, but it's not supposed to _hurt_. So if it does, just tell me and we'll ease up on you."

In preparation, Chekov scrunches his eyes shut and turns away. Kirk catches the silly smile on Sulu's face as the pilot pauses for a moment to revel – unobserved by the object of his attentions – at Chekov's behavior.

His hunch is definitely definitively correct. If he wasn't surrounded by his crew – and namely, the two members in question – Kirk would be cheering aloud. As it is, he contents himself to a satisfied smile as he leans forward to watch Chekov's reaction.

He loves this game.

(*)

Three hours into his shift, Kirk drops the PADD onto his lap that he's been hunched over all evening, leans back and stretches, feeling a satisfying pop. While there's never a shortage of work for him to do, sometimes he wishes certain aspects of it were a bit more interesting. He's gotten good at the paperwork, even handling the extra load given to him when Spock stopped helping, but he still hates it just as much as he did at the Academy.

The view on the screen has barely changed since he arrived on shift. They are currently on a relatively simple ferrying mission and while in transit, his input isn't needed, so he has little to occupy himself during his shift beyond the paperwork and a couple of regularly scheduled meetings after dinner with two heads of department.

At a whistle from his comm. panel, he punches the button.

"Kirk here."

"Cap'n," comes the familiar Scottish burr of his chief engineer. "We've an emergency situation developing on G-deck. There's some type o' lifeform clogging up the ventilation shafts doon here and Ah'll wage ma dobber I know wha' it is."

He feels his brows draw inward, as he tries to make sense of the statement. They haven't stopped near a planet, and there's no way anything could beam aboard them during warp. It's not possible for an alien lifeform to enter their ship, except – he has a sinking feeling he knows what it is too, but he doesn't want to jump to conclusions.

"Do you have a report on what the life forms look like?" he asks, on his feet in a rush. The Bridge has hushed around them, as everyone listens for the Scot's words.

"I was going tae ask Commander Spock…"

"Mr. Spock," he interrupts the engineer, "if you could –"

"I have recalibrated the sensors, Captain," Spock smoothly interrupts before he can finish his request – something Kirk's only seen him do in emergencies, "and the necessary data has been requested. The computer is compiling a scan of G-Deck to ascertain the necessary information."

Kirk experiences a flash of gratitude that his first officer is a genius, and can anticipate his desires before they need to be voiced aloud. Not wanting to stand, frustrated and twiddling his thumbs while he waits for the results, he strides to the Science Station. He glances at Uhura, who is also on her feet near her station – a look of confusion and worry flitting across her face. He should have listened, should have taken Scotty's warnings seriously.

When he comes up behind Spock, the Vulcan's hands are busy flying over the computer panel, working their magic, pulling up the vital data they all need. He leans over the Vulcan's shoulder, his head right next to Spock's to view the information on the screen as it's compiling.

The adrenaline pumping through his system slows in the warmth of Spock's presence. But he wants more than just the hint that proximity offers. Not caring if he's been patient enough, or who sees, he dares push the boundaries that are slowly dissolving between them.

Staring straight ahead, focused on the computer console and the data Spock is collecting, he moves. Fingers splayed, he stretches his arm out across the broad back before him. Feather-light and ever-so-soft, just the barest hint of his fingertips rest against the strong shoulder. The Vulcan's heat enters him through the five infinitesimal points of contact, pulsing up his arm to merge with the shudder-thump warmth radiating from Kirk's heart.

He freezes as he feels the muscles tense, as an involuntary shudder rolls across the Vulcan's form. And then, to his intense relief and transcendent amazement, the muscles beneath him are made to relax. The shoulders shift back into their normal position as the tension is released, and Kirk has to hold back a cheer of joy.

For his part, Spock has not even acknowledged the hand upon his shoulder – instead, the Vulcan is still intent on the computer display before him, and the schematics that have been pulled up. And the dire news they display.

"It appears there are 392 – correction, 465 and counting – life forms on G-Deck. They are spreading out in a fan as they multiply, and based on their greatest concentration and the radial pattern of their progress, they appear to have originated in quarters G-11A," Spock reports, for the benefit of Mr. Scott. Everyone on the bridge knows that's Uhura's cabin.

"Can you isolate the affected shafts, Scotty? Stop them from spreading further?"

"Not wi'out cutting off life-support doon here. An' Ah'm guessing they've already spread tae F and H decks."

Kirk looks at the Vulcan who nods in confirmation. "Unfortunately, looks like you're right, Scotty."

Relishing the point of contact for just a moment more, Kirk presses his fingertips against that strong shoulder for a heartbeat. Then, stepping back, he addresses his crew. "Right. Spock, you're with me." He glances back at the woman standing alone and anxious at the Communications Station. "Uhura, get an environmental team to meet us on G-Deck. Sulu, you have the conn."

Uhura turns around and sits at her station, executing his orders as Spock falls in on his right side.


	22. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Happy Thanksgiving, to those who celebrate it!

**A/N:** Happy Thanksgiving, to those who celebrate it!

Ohhh! And I almost forgot! There will be a link in my profile to the "Official" cover for The Flavor of Laughter, which I have at my livejournal page. I hope you enjoy :D

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Ten

* * *

**

"This must be important sir," comes a voice from the direction of the briefing room door. "You don't usually pull me from the labs." For all intents and purposes, it appears as if the door opened by itself, and no one entered – the only clue otherwise is a pair of pink pigtails floating just above the level of the table.

There's the sound of small feet padding around as the pigtails bob in Kirk's direction, and then Moe comes into view. "It is important, Dr. Saunders," he says from the head of the table. Kirk watches as her eyes alight immediately on him, followed by the rest of his senior crew around him. "We have a situation on our hands, and we need your help."

She trots over, her hands wringing in an obvious sign of stress as her eyes get even larger. He watches as she tugs on one of her pigtails and asks, "What do you need?"

Kirk glances at Spock and nods at the Vulcan. Spock stands up and grasps the clear globe in the center of the table, which contains Uhura's tribble, and lowers it so Moe can see the creature clearly. "Are you familiar with this species?" Kirk asks, his eyes focused on the diminutive woman to gauge her reaction. Her obviously interested reaction, as all traces of stress disappear, and she almost skips forward in her eagerness.

Grasping the sides of the container in her tiny hands, she tilts it down so she can get a good view. Kirk can tell that Spock keeps a good grip on it, as it does not slip to the floor when one of her hands shifts away to poke at the clear polymer. "It's a tribble!" she giggles, as it emits its cooing noise.

At the sound, her eyes light up and she grins back at the creature. "I've always wanted one – my gran had one when I was little, and they're great pets if you take care of them properly." Then she pauses, glancing at Kirk in confusion. "But they're hardly seen off my planet. How'd it get onboard?"

"Aye, lassie, tis the problem," Scotty breaks in, his arms crossed over his chest. "The wee mite was brought in by a lass who didnae know how tae keep it properly, an' it bred, an' they've spread through the vent shafts." Despite the disgruntlement that is still radiating from Scotty, he has willingly given up all the information he knows about the creatures that are infesting their ship. Kirk hated having to admit he'd been wrong about anything – least of all harmless balls of fluff – and had felt reluctant to bring the engineer into the brain storming session. But he only hesitated for a moment before calling the Scotsman to the briefing room.

Her eyes widen in worry once again, her attention leaving the tribble immediately and focusing on Kirk. "How bad is it?"

"Judging by what Spock and I found on G-Deck, the situation is critical. The vent shafts in the area are so full of the furry things we couldn't push our way through them. And they've spread both up and down to the adjacent decks."

She gulps again, and there's a visible tremor in her fingers before she flexes them. "Okay. They breed exponentially. So we just need to know how long it's been since the first one came on the ship –"

"A week," Uhura murmurs, before Moe continues.

"Okay, a week." The pink pigtails bobble in a nod. "If they find enough food, each tribble can produce ten young via asexual reproduction twice daily."

Quickly performing the compound equation in his head, Kirk comes to a total that staggers him. "If they'd all been fed enough to procreate every twelve hours, there would be over seventy eight million of the things on board. Luckily, they've only had access to whatever snacks the crew kept in their quarters, otherwise the entire ship would be overrun – instead of just the vent shafts on a couple Decks."

"Captain – if you recall, the ship's stores are concentrated on C-Deck. If the lifeforms are allowed to reach that location, they will have enough sustenance to achieve those numbers." Spock's voice seems monotone, as always, but Kirk can pick up the slightest of hitches as the Vulcan shortens their working timeframe drastically. And he can understand – just the thought of that many _millions_ of tribbles overrunning his ship makes him shiver.

"Seventy eight _million_?" Uhura breathes, her eyes huge as they are drawn to the innocent-seeming ball of fluff in its container.

"Sewenty eight million is with zhe original count being one," Chekov says, with a slow shake of his head. "We haf no idea how many zhere are at zhis moment, but zhey have a larger base zhen zhey began with. The numbers zhey could easily reach now are ewen worse."

Glancing back at the biologist, Kirk notices that she is staring at the tribble in its place on the table – a look of longing in her eyes. "Don't even think about keeping one, Moe." Kirk shoots her a look, knowing full well where that impulse leads.

She grins and returns her eyes to him, not even the least bit ashamed. "Only crossed my mind for a moment sir, promise!"

He shivers, not knowing quite how to respond. Then the intercom before him buzzes to life, saving him from having to come up with an answer.

"Kirk here," he says as soon as he presses the button.

"Captain," comes Commander Lebowitz's voice; Kirk doesn't know the beta-shift junior science officer very well, who is currently standing in for Spock at the Science Station and monitoring the tribbles' progress. "The creatures have now started to infiltrate E-deck."

Silence in the briefing room as everyone takes in this most recent development. They're spreading fast, now. "Okay, so how do we get rid of these things?" Kirk brings everyone's attention back to the present, and away from the fear that must surely be filling all of them. It's important that they keep thinking clearly, and problem solving. "Scotty, you said we can't isolate the shafts in the affected sections?"

"Nae w'out cutting off life support on the lower decks," the engineer replies, his forehead creased as he considers. "The vent shafts are a critical part of the system."

A whisper of movement from Uhura, as her fingers tense at her sides. "Is there any way to get rid of them without killing them? It's not their fault they were brought on board."

Kirk's first impulse is to reprimand her – she's the reason they are in this predicament, the reason his lady is in danger and he's not in the mood to be generous.

"That's why I called Moe here," he interrupts, keeping his tone professional. He's skeptical they'll be able to find a solution that doesn't involve killing the tribbles, but he's willing to try. "Her expertise with biology should give us some insight into collecting them instead of just killing them outright. We'll also need some place we can put them that's safe, and they can't hurt anything. If they spread this quickly, and we found a planet to house them, they'd decimate any ecosystem in a matter of weeks." He rubs the base of his neck, feeling all the stress and tension gathering there.

Then Moe bounces up to Kirk's side, tugging on his sleeve in her excitement. "We can put them on Servin VI! The whole planet is out of balance, and if it doesn't have some herbivores to bring the ecosystem back into whack soon it'll die. And tribbles are notoriously resistant to any kind of radiation, so they won't be bothered by the hole in the ozone layer. It's perfect!" she claps her hands, proud of herself, as his officers consider her idea.

"That seems…nice. For them," Uhura murmurs, as the rest nod their agreement. Her fingers finally relax the moment before they tense up again. "But how are we going to collect them without hurting them?"

"The tribbles on E-Deck will be retrievable by hand, as they have not had time to spread far into the ventilation shafts. The solution for the other Decks is not as simple," Spock answers her question as he steeples his fingers.

Silence once again, as each member of the brainstorming team tries to come up with a solution. Several ideas are offered, and quickly discarded. The difficulty is finding a solution to collecting each and every one of them – making sure not a single tribble is let behind to procreate on the ship.

After several long tense minutes have passed since the last suggestion is turned down, Kirk can't help but tangle his hands in his hair. He's frustrated, and the need to fix things is almost overwhelming. But no one knows how, and he can tell from his crew's little twitches that they are becoming as discouraged as he.

Then Chekov's face breaks into a joyous expression, his curls shifting slightly as he practically vibrates in his excitement. "I know! I know!" he cheers, his fist pumping. "In Russia, when we had animals in zhe walls zhat were not supposed to be zhere, and we wanted zhem to leave, we would use zhis thing. It looked like a box, yes?" The young genius demonstrates with excited hand motions. "Zhe box emitted zhis noise, and zhe animals did not like it. It did not hurt us or zhem, but it forced zhe animals to leave our homes!"

The grin on Chekov's face is huge, and Kirk distractedly notices that the whiz kid turns to the helmsman for Sulu's approval. For his part, Sulu returns the grin with one of his own.

"That just might work, lad," Scotty murmurs, rubbing his chin where a sprinkling of stubble is visible. "Ah have summat we ken use to spread the noise. If'n we use 'em to herd the tribbles afore us, we might be able to get them all in a cargo bay an' get 'em off the ship. We just have t' find out what noise t' use."

Uhura's eyes flash as she snaps her fingers. "I know! I was studying some language recordings in my quarters. And when I was playing some of the Klingon history-chants, my –" she pauses, then corrects herself, "the tribble I had kept twitching and trying to escape."

His eyebrow rises in surprise, and with a start Kirk realizes he's mimicking Spock's customary expression. Quickly, he lowers the eyebrow before anyone else can notice.

"Fascinating," comes the deep voice on his right. "I am curious if this is the result of the noise itself emitted as sound waves on a certain frequency, or an aversion to something beyond that simple solution." There's an intense look in the Vulcan's eyes that clearly indicates, at least to Kirk, that he is filing the information away for further research.

A slight smile appears on Uhura's face as her eyes rest on Spock. "I thought the reaction was odd, and was going to find out why it'd happened – but I haven't had time to. I don't think it matters now, just that it should work."

Clapping his hands together, Scotty interrupts their discourse before it can evolve into a deep discussion. "Alright, lads an' lassies, we ken do this. Ah have a plan…."

(*)

Kirk's not quite sure how it happened, but it did. He is inside the vent shafts, crawling along behind Archie as the beagle searches out tribbles. They are behind the line of his crew, picking up stragglers. The people with emitters started at the very edges of the ship, and are slowly inching forward – driving the tribbles before them. Their destination is a series of cargo containers hurriedly erected in the shuttle bay, and the crew waiting anxiously to herd the tribbles inside.

"It appears as if your canine is aware of their locations." Spock's voice crackles over the communicator at Kirk's side, the sound causing Archie to wag his tail. The Vulcan is at his station on the Bridge, coordinating all their movements with the flow of tribbles on his monitor. It appeared, at first, that the difficult part was finding the pace the crew holding their emitters should walk with – too fast and they would leave tribbles behind them, too slow and the creatures would get comfortable again and stop moving.

At this point, everyone has the pace more or less down, and the process is moving much more smoothly. But there are still some tribbles that are safely behind several layers of metal – and therefore aren't affected by the noise – or are in twisting sections of the tubes and can't go where they're supposed to. That's when Kirk thought of his dog, and his remarkable nose. Archie is capable of finding those stragglers so Kirk can gather them, and get them in the shuttle bay with the rest of their kind.

"I'm glad it's working," Kirk replies, tapping the huge duffel he's dragging behind himself. It's already half full. "If it wasn't, I'd have to grab one of those emitters and follow everyone else. And that would just be cruel and unusual punishment – for me, and the dog." He'd already heard the noises coming from the emitters when Archie had led him close to several of the air vents on their journey through the shafts, and he did not like what he heard. It wasn't going to hurt anyone, but it could never be categorized as "enjoyable." And if it hurt Kirk's ears, it wasn't good for Archie to be exposed to it for an extended period of time.

A pause for a moment, that on anyone else would have been a chuckle. "Indeed. The Klingon _SuvwI'bom_ require a trained ear for appreciation to the fullest extent."

"Uh-huh," Kirk lets the sarcasm color his voice, knowing Spock will be able to pick it up. "I'd rather listen to two cats proclaiming their lust for one another."

Silence from Spock, and Kirk sighs. He doesn't believe the Vulcan is ignoring him, or his comment – his attention was probably just called somewhere else to coordinate the group's movement.

"Well, Archie," he begins, talking to the dog. "It looks like it's just you and me now." The beagle turns his head, ears perked and tail wagging slightly to see if his instructions have changed. His long tail whacks Kirk in the temple, and he grabs it with a chuckle. "No, no – search, boy."

Reassured that he's doing what he's supposed to, the dog wags his freed tail once more, then continues forward. He's intent, and focused – there must be another tribble somewhere along this route.

But even finding a tribble every several minutes, traveling through the vent shafts is monotonous. He's trapped in an endless loop of forward motion, they can't stop searching until all of the tribbles are found, and there's no one to talk to. Except Archie. Kirk's used to having one-sided conversations with his dog, and this one begins with random comments about the state of the tube – remarkably dust-free considering so few people get in here – and then moves on to a commentary about the foods he wishes the replicator would create.

His rambling continues for a good ten minutes before there's a soft interruption.

"You are aware, Jim, that you left the channel open between us, and I am privy to everything that you have been saying?" Spock murmurs quietly, causing Kirk to blush beet red from his neck to the tips of his ears. He's just glad he hasn't said anything too embarrassing – and that by the tone of Spock's voice, most of the Vulcan's attention has been occupied with watching the team's progress.

He shrugs, even though Spock isn't there to see it, and decides to brush his embarrassment off. "It doesn't matter. I was just trying to keep myself company."

"I see," Spock says. "I would be willing to offer my assistance in filling the intervening minutes with dialogue. The majority of my attention is no longer required to coordinate the effort; my presence now is simply to monitor, and make minor adjustments to pace if necessary."

A huge grin spreads across Kirk's face at the offer, and he is grateful once again that Spock is not physically present to witness him with such an expression. Or anyone else, for that matter – silly moon-eyes of adoration are definitely not under the heading of "awesome" that he uses to categorize himself now.

"I'd like that, Spock," he admits easily, surprised at the Vulcan's offer. Kirk feels inordinately pleased that Spock is willing to spend additional time with him. The rest of his time in the shafts passes swiftly, as the warm sound of Spock's voice keeps him company. Before he even realizes it, Archie is scratching at a grate with a whine. It looks different than the ones they've passed before, and a quick glance through the slats confirms – they've arrived at the shuttle bay.

"Good boy," Kirk says with a loving pat for the dog, grinning down at the trusting eyes looking to him for guidance. Feeling around the edges of the grate, he locates the latch and watches as it swings downward on well-oiled hinges. The beagle hops out after it's open, shaking himself and trotting through the hastily erected fencing and towards the commotion taking place near the transport containers.

Doing a quick head count, Kirk confirms that all the crewmembers that were given emitters are in the shuttle bay. It looks like he's the last one to arrive; and, if Archie was willing to leave the vents, it _should_ mean that all the tribbles are out of the ship.

As he watches, the engineers manning the containers – including Ensign Olivarez, whom Kirk recognizes from his earlier walk with Scotty – close the huge doors, locking them firmly in place – all but one, where the crew is looking at him expectantly. Kirk hurriedly makes his way over, handing over the duffel containing the last group of tribbles he'd gathered on their way to the shuttle bay.

Ignoring his crew for the moment, as he can feel their eyes on him waiting for further instructions, he unhooks his communicator from his belt and holds it before him. The channel between Spock and him should still be open. "Mr. Spock, looks like we're done. Carry out a complete scan of the ship to make sure that apart from the cargo deck, there are absolutely no more left anywhere else."

"Aye, Captain." Then long minutes as the results compile, tense silence reigning in the shuttle bay before Spock continues. "Multiple scans reveal the same results, Captain. There are no anomalous life-signs on the _Enterprise_ – all the tribbles have been contained."

Finally, he allows the muscles in his shoulders and neck to relax, letting the tension ebb away. They're enroute to Servin VI, and soon the little nuisances will no longer be a threat.

He lets his biggest grin split his face, he opens a channel to the Bridge to make sure all of his officers are able to hear. Turning to include every crew member in his congratulations, he shouts to be heard by all. "Great job, everyone! I've got the best crew any captain could ever ask for!"

Cheers erupt around him, as the work teams clap each other soundly on the shoulder. Kirk joins in, giving the lieutenant next to him a high five.

* * *

"Jim? Are you unwell?"

Blinking, Kirk shifts his eyes so they focus on Spock. The Vulcan is across the tiny table from him, his hand of cards held carefully in his long fingers as he prepares his move.

It took them nine days to get to Servin VI, and along the way Kirk had contacted Starfleet and explained the details of what had occurred, and their plan for getting the tribbles off the ship. They'd had to debate amongst themselves, then he'd gotten the go-ahead via Pike. As soon as they arrived at Servin VI, there was a flurry of activity that culminated in the tribbles being transported safely to the planet, and the ship leaving everything behind them. This happened at the very end of Kirk's shift, and Spock had agreed to come to his quarters to collaborate on their reports of the incident. After finally finishing the stack of paperwork that was required to properly document the situation and its outcome, Kirk hadn't been in the mood for something as intense as a chess game with Spock. He'd suggested Rummy as an alternative – in the hope that it would be more relaxing.

"I'm fine," he answers, but it came out too quickly and he cringes internally.

"I requested clarification on the rules for this particular version of the game," Spock says, his eyes still on the cards. "You specified what I should be searching for to match the cards in my hand, but you did not detail what is required to declare a winning hand."

"Sorry, um." Shaking himself, Kirk gives a grunt. "Once all ten cards in your hand are part of a run of at least three or more, then you win."

With a nod, Spock leans forward and takes the top card off the deck. Kirk shivers, as the Vulcan's long tapered fingers are momentarily superimposed by an image of a hand with delicate veins and pale pink skin.

"No," he says, the word coming out even before he realizes it. Suddenly self-conscious, he runs a hand through his hair as he focuses on not-looking at Spock and his raised eyebrow.

"Jim?" The simple word, his _name_ said in that deep voice crumbles whatever concentration he had left, and he lays his cards on the table face down. Sighing, he rests his chin on a hand and fiddles with one of the cards before him.

"I don't know," he mumbles, more to himself than the Vulcan. His heel starts tap-tapping on the floor. "Do you ever think that maybe you're crazy to consider something?"

Silence for a moment, and then an answer. "As you are aware, we have strict control over our emotions. What Humans refer to as 'crazy' – a descriptor for one who is of unsound mind – is unknown to us, except by those few afflicted with _Bendii Syndrome_."

Shaking his head, he stands. With a sigh, Kirk begins to pace in the familiar path he's wearing in the carpet. He's unsurprised when Archie, who had been lying at Spock's feet, starts following behind him. "I mean…Have you ever found yourself evaluating your opinion of someone?" A pause, but he continues. "Someone you thought you knew, had dismissed as not worthy of your time, and realized that maybe you didn't know them at all?"

"Of course, Jim." The answer comes immediately, and with ease from the Vulcan. "When I first accepted my position as your second in command, it was with the expectation that my presence would be required to salvage the _Enterprise_ and the remains of her crew from the destruction your ego would eventually lead us to. Since then, I have watched you display a degree of care and consideration of which I did not previously consider you capable."

Kirk half-smiles at the words, the somehow expected distrust of his abilities at the beginning, and then gives a snort. "It must run in my family, then."

"It is common for personality traits to follow genetic lines. Therefore there is a high probability that your family members are similar in their complexity."

He glances back at the table, at the stacks of cards placed upon it – and the memories the game had brought up. "Mom stayed away as much as possible. I always thought it was my fault, that –" he swallows. "That I reminded her of my dad, and that watching me grow up was too much for her to handle."

Blinking, he clears his eyes – turns away, so his back is to the table. He tries to stop the images, tries to stop seeing his mom smiling and laughing as she teaches him an old game with a tattered deck of cards. "But lately, I've been remembering things. And thinking about them differently. Like, whenever she was home she'd spend as much time with us as she could. How even though she would be gone all the time – she seemed sad when she was leaving the house.

"How after my brother left, it was me who refused to speak to her. She tried. She reached out to me but by that point I'd had enough and I didn't give a damn anymore." He sighs, flexing his hand to ease the tension. "And I'm starting to think that maybe, she had her own reasons for what she did. Things I couldn't understand when I was a kid, that I might be able to understand a bit more now."

There are eyes on him, and he can feel the curiosity virtually emanating from Spock, but the Vulcan doesn't say a word. Kirk turns back towards his friend – his brother – and the smile that stretches his lips doesn't hold any humor in it. "And I'm starting to get curious as to what those reasons were."

"Do you intend to contact her?"

It's one simple question, but it's the heart of the matter. With a heavy thud, Kirk sits back on his chair, considering. The anger is still there, a living thing in his belly that protests the thought of _him_ calling _her_. But underneath it, and growing, is curiosity, the desire to try and understand why she thought leaving them behind was the right thing to do.

He shakes his head, resisting the urge to grind his teeth together. "No," he says, the bitterness coming out because he makes no pretense at hiding it. "I'm not willing to give that to her. I'm still angry at her, and what she let happen to us. But…I'm not as angry as I was before."

And he is; he can feel the difference as he picks up his cards and reorganizes them.

"I will," he murmurs, mostly to himself even though he knows the Vulcan's keen hearing will pick it up. He reaches out with a tentative hand, brushing his fingertips against the elbow so close to his own in silent thanks. "When _I'm_ ready to."

(*)

The expected, and welcome, sound of the door to the observation deck opening behind him causes him to turn. Kirk had been hoping the doctor would stop by to check on him, knowing with that sixth sense he always seems to have that Kirk is having trouble sleeping. "Hey Bones, I –" he begins, then freezes when he sees the arrival.

Uhura stands, looking uncomfortable in the soft half-light of the deck. Lifting her chin, she takes another step forward. "He told me I'd be able to find you here."

Grunting, Kirk turns back to watching the simulated starfield on the other side of the barrier – as he was doing, prior to the interruption. He's not in the mood to think about Uhura, and the problems that have existed in their friendship recently. Everything that was brought up in his earlier conversation with Spock is still there, and Kirk feels raw and exposed – and angry.

"What do you want, Uhura?" he asks, as it's obvious she must have come for a reason.

She walks up, leaning against the banister beside him. Uninvited, and unwanted – he tenses at her presence before he can help himself. "I wanted to thank you for what you said in the report."

The tension gathers at the base of his neck and between his shoulder blades, and he forces his muscles to start to relax with a sigh. He knows what she's referring to, and is unsurprised that she read it before sending it off. In his report for the tribble incident, he downplayed the fact that she had been the one to bring the tribble on board – and tried to highlight the integral role she'd played in getting all the furballs off the ship.

"I didn't do it for _you_ , Uhura. I did it for the best Communications Officer in Starfleet, who I need," he answers truthfully, tapping his fingers on the railing. The report won't stop her from getting a formal reprimand for not following procedure, but he does hope it keeps her from being grounded. He tried his hardest to show the great qualities of all his crew, to keep them out of the fire at least. There's no way for him to tell how severe his own reprimand is going to be – for ignoring procedure and allowing Uhura to bring the tribble on the ship to begin with, and not heeding Scotty's warning when it was given. At this point, it can range anywhere from a verbal tongue-lashing from Pike for not following the rules, to the _Enterprise_ being taken from him before his year is out.

"I know," she says, folding her arms and staring at the starlight before them. "I still appreciate it – I was an idiot, and you didn't have to."

He snorts, waving her thanks away with the hand that was tapping on the rail. "I should have made sure the thing went through the proper processes, too, before letting you take it on board. If it'd gone to Moe in the first place we wouldn't have gotten into this mess."

She nods slowly in agreement. "But we both know the reason why you weren't thinking clearly enough to order me to bring it to Biology first." She takes a breath, and then sighs. "That's the other reason I came up. I've been thinking about the way I've been acting towards you, and I'm sorry."

The tension between his shoulder blades spreads in a heartbeat, and he stiffens beside her. He was expecting this direction to come, but he's not ready for it and not in the mood. Glancing to the side, he sees Uhura looking at him intently. She catches him looking, and places a hand on his arm, just below his elbow. "I've been jealous, Kirk….Because Spock has been giving you something he couldn't give me.

"And I wanted to tell you that it won't happen anymore," she says, giving his arm an awkward pat before she removes her hand. With a nod, she turns to go – and he can hear the tap of her heels on the flooring before the door whooshes closed behind her. He's left alone with his thoughts, to wonder exactly what she was referring to with that cryptic statement.


	23. The Flavor of Laughter Part Two, Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** *takes deep breath, sighs*

**A/N:** *takes deep breath, sighs*

 ****

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven

* * *

**

He can't help but stare as the elegant, long-limbed being before him spreads an arm in an encompassing gesture. Curving down from his arm is what looks like feathers, but Kirk learned is actually a type of fungus. One that the Caladari's form a symbiotic relationship with as soon as they're hatched; the long, trailing, oscillating fungus is actually sentient.

It's beautiful. The fungus covers the Caladaris' bodies completely, making any item of clothing unnecessary, and it shifts constantly even when there is no breeze. When several Caladaris are grouped together – or, like now, when there is an entire reception hall full of them – the fungus communicates with its brethren, and shimmering scintillating colors pass across the surface of the fungus like a chameleon, traveling in waves through the room. Sometimes it's too fast for Kirk's Human eyes to make out the shades, and sometimes they are colors he doesn't even have names for.

The being before him – a male – blinks slowly as he waits for the universal translator to do its job. His eyes are huge, contributing to the essence of bird that the aliens give off. The only thing he's missing is the beak; when he opens his lipless mouth to speak Kirk gets flashes of sharp pointed teeth. No matter how elegant and harmless the Caladaris look, they are predators – they use the stiff but somehow still flexible fungus that springs from their arms for lift, and glide in to pluck their prey from the air with their taloned feet.

Kirk smiles and nods, bowing his head in a gesture of deep respect. This particular Caladari – Xelez – is the newly elected ruler of the planet, and Kirk has to dance carefully around him. The Caladari's planet is rich in medical discoveries, only the surface of which have been explored by the Federation. This knowledge comes from the Caladari's symbiotic and, from what Kirk's picked up telepathic, relationship with the fungus – it gives them the unique ability to know exactly what type of properties the plants contain.

Which is why Kirk, and his crew, are here for this occasion. For the last month they have been given nothing but milk runs, the simplest of missions, as a sort of punishment for bringing the tribble on board. Or, at least that's what Kirk perceived it as. There hasn't been any punishment beyond the formal reprimand Pike gave him – which he's still getting over, at least trying to move past the palpable disappointment that was radiating off Pike when he was delivering it. Kirk hadn't anticipated how much letting his mentor down would affect him, not to mention the fact that there wasn't any indication as to whether his oversight is going to cost him the ship, permanently, but Kirk knows that he's walking the thin edge now.

"The Federation is intent on working for the betterment of all of its members, " he tells the president, the universal translator making the required fluting chirps and hisses as it changes his words to the Caladari's language. "and we hope that, in the future, we can continue to count on the Caladium's support, as we will endeavor to support your people in any way we can."

Xelez bobs his head in response, speaking the required words of support and Kirk offers the appropriate response, drawing on his experience at Quakel to shift through the intricate diplomatic steps he's beginning to get a firm grasp on. He's on his own at the moment, as his crew is dispersed around him, all except the required security escort at his back, blending in with the Caladaris, and sometimes disappearing from his sight.

Kirk's eyes have been scanning the crowd all night, and he thought it was simply to take in the sight of the fungus and its shimmering colors. But when his eyes finally alight on Spock's elegant form, and the knot of tension inside him immediately disappears, he knows what he was really searching for. The Vulcan is in the midnight blue dress uniform Kirk hasn't seen since that night on Quakel – and the spot of darkness that he provides in this immersion of light and color is a welcome relief.

With an internal sigh of pleasure, Kirk turns back to the Caladari before him. Xelez will be making many important decisions in the years to come and the Federation – and Kirk – wants to make sure that the working relationship between the two is strong.

* * *

As if it has already absorbed the chill of the water drenching him, the tile feels cold against his skin. Kirk shifts his position slightly, allowing the water to pour over him at a different angle as he leans against the smooth side of the stall.

There's not enough room in the shower, or in the entire ship for that matter. If only the damn Vulcan weren't…who he was. And Kirk was able to ignore the attraction that just seems to be endlessly growing. It's bad enough that he has to work continuously with Spock, and they have their frequent chess games where the Vulcan reveals other facets of his mesmerizing personality. But the _suus manha_ practices must be factored into the equation, with all the _required_ touching, and –

He stops that train of thought before it can fully coalesce, sighing to himself. This is exactly why he is taking a shower as cold as the controls will allow him – using what will probably be an entire week's worth of water rations in a span of fifteen minutes. During the last practice, he'd been distracted by how wonderful Spock had felt under his hands, how much he'd wished that grunt had been for another reason entirely, and his body had almost betrayed him. Spock may keep his shields up constantly to avoid accidentally picking up something through a touch, but there's no way for Kirk to explain away the obvious signs of an erection.

Hopefully, when his blood is cooled after this shower, he'll be better able to control his body's impulses. Kirk smiles sardonically to himself, knowing that his efforts are probably fruitless – he knows how he reacts to the Vulcan. It's ironic, but his first officer has no idea what sweet torture he's devised, and how it's slowly killing Kirk.

Delaying the inevitable, he steeps himself under the cold water for several more minutes before dragging himself out. Shivering, he hurries to dry himself off and dress before rushing to the practice he both dreads and adores.

Kirk slips inside the room and joins Spock on the mats, falling into the warm-up almost instantly as his movements mirror the Vulcan's. From the single punches and kicks they move into the forms, the practiced strings of combinations coming second nature to Kirk. Then, the last step concluded, they shift to a relaxed stance to signal completion, expelling a long low breath in unison.

Then, with a grin, Kirk bounces onto the balls of his feet and turns to face the calm Vulcan beside him. "What are we doing today?"

Spock raises a winged eyebrow, and Kirk can see the warmth in his eyes as he replies, "I believe we will continue with your sparring practice."

He can feel a frown shift across his features – sparring is what almost got him in trouble last time, and he would prefer avoiding it if at all possible. At least, until he finds out if the cold shower beforehand was as effective as its purported to be.

But it appears as if the Vulcan misinterpreted his expression, as Spock tilts his head to the side. "Your form and positioning is up to par, Jim," he says by way of explanation, "but I believe your execution of the principles you have learned, at least while under the pressure of a sparring match, will benefit from spending additional time practicing the finer details."

With a shrug, barely more than a slight movement of his shoulders, Kirk gives his agreement. No time to test his cold shower theory like the present, apparently – and it's not as if he'll ever turn down the opportunity to practice what he's learned in a freeform exercise.

No further speaking is necessary, as Kirk's feet shift subtly beneath him. His weight moves to his back foot, balanced to leave his front foot free. He knows this stance reduces the power in his kicking leg, but what it does offer him is increased speed – the edge he needs against the bulkier, stronger Vulcan.

His fists are loose and ready as he keeps his eyes focused on his opponent. Kirk watches as Spock settles into a standard defensive stance, circling around him carefully as he evaluates for holes. So instead of giving Spock the opportunity to slowly pick his defense apart, Kirk feints forward with a swift roundhouse aimed at the side of the Vulcan's head.

It's a kick that Spock easily deflects, parrying back with a palm strike. They trade blows, testing each other and Kirk can't help the grin that spreads his face. Moving with Spock, sparring with him like this – it's _fun_ in a way he hasn't experienced in a long time. That is, until his hand automatically darts forward to tap Spock's chest as substitute for a blow to the solar plexus – and a deep voice cuts through the dance of their practice.

"Freeze," Spock commands, and Kirk's so used to this place, and what's expected _here_ that his body ceases all movement instantly to follow the Vulcan's instruction. Spock stands straight, stiff and formal, and clasps his hands behind his back. "What was that attempting to be, Jim?"

Struck off-balance by the question, Kirk isn't quite sure what Spock is asking of him. "I hit your solar plexus in a definite strike," he says, keeping his confusion out of his tone. "If this was a judged match, that hit would give me one point."

"This is an inaccurate assessment," Spock replies, exuding calm as he watches Kirk unblinking.

Squinting at the Vulcan, Kirk regards him suspiciously, "But it's a take-down –"

"Are you positive of this?" Spock asks, leaving Kirk even further off kilter. "Is this a move I've ever taught you, Jim?"

He struggles to think back over their weeks and months of practice, piecing together the attacks he's learned. Takedowns, disabling limbs, holds – vicious kicks to the head and torso. But never a strike to the solar plexus, or even anything similar. The only thing Kirk can remember that came close was that blow to the midsection during a takedown months back – but Spock had never stated he should aim for the solar plexus, Kirk had just automatically thought of it that way.

Spock nods. "Are you even certain that I, as a half-Vulcan, have a solar plexus that would be compromised by such a move?" At Kirk's shake of the head, Spock continues. "I have intentionally not taught you any attacks focused on specific parts of the anatomy, beyond limbs that can be eliminated and the areas of body structure that are most likely to be vulnerable. You are unable to guarantee that your opponent will even be bipedal, much less have a nervous system that resembles your own."

"You have a point there," Kirk replies, his grin returning but sheepish this time as he rubs the back of his neck.

The Vulcan blinks at him momentarily, then the spark of an idea lights his eyes. "As another example – where is my heart located?"

He knows it's a trick question, but he can't go anywhere but forward. So, hesitating for just a moment, Kirk reaches forward and places his hand on Spock's midsection – not quite knowing exactly where the Vulcan's heart is, but knowing it's lower than a Human's would be.

Then there is a warm hand grasping his wrist, lifting his hand and lowering it – and moving it around behind, pressing his palm against the fabric around where Kirk would expect Spock's liver to be.

"It is here, Jim."

And he can feel it, the pulsing flutter of a heartbeat so much faster than his own. Jim swallows as he has to struggle not to clench his hands, to cling to the smooth fabric and pull Spock close. Unconsciously, Jim's tongue darts out and licks at his lips – and when his tongue slips back into the safe recesses of his mouth, the sweet-sour crunch of apples lingers on his taste buds. A moment later, the hand around his wrist releases him, and he backs up before he can do something he will regret.

"If you were to perform a kidney shot," Spock continues, oblivious to the internal struggle that Kirk is undergoing, "instead of being debilitating as it would to a Humanoid, a Vulcanoid would be protected by an additional 3.5 centimeters of ribcage and your strike would be ineffectual."

He grimaces, but he can see Spock's point – when he forces himself to think around the warmth in his chest.

"Cease thinking of the body in terms of your own," says Spock into the contemplative silence. "There are infinite combinations, and it is only prudent that you prepare for the unpredictable." Especially considering they are on an exploration mission, which will lead them to even more uncharted worlds and confrontations with species that are not always friendly.

Spock's feet shift on the mat, and suddenly he is in an offensive stance. "Again," is all he has to say and Kirk sinks into an attack stance instantly.

He only wishes it were so simple to resume the interrupted beat of his heart.

* * *

The doors slide open before him, and he strides into Sickbay with confidence. They have several more days at the planet, which will be occupied with loading and cataloging the samples Xelez offered the Federation as a sign of his planet's continuing support – and in return, Kirk is bringing back the Caladari's formal request to become part of the Federation. It has been an auspicious occasion, and after all the talking, Kirk found he performed better than he hoped. And he certainly enjoys having the fruits of his hard work to ferry back to Starfleet for the scientists back home to work on. After Spock and Bones have gotten their hands on samples for their respective departments, of course.

But his part in this mission is done, and now it's up to the Science Department to get everything transferred properly. It leaves him at loose ends, and grateful that he'd gotten permission to explore the public areas of the planet during his day off. That will keep him occupied tomorrow, but he would prefer some company tonight – and Bones is always the best of companions.

Glancing around, Kirk can't find Bones in the open area of Sickbay. He does spot Uhura and M'Benga off to the side, and strides over. The doctor is holding a dataPADD, and is asking Uhura a list of questions. He must be assisting Bones with the physicals that were scheduled for the unexpected downtime. If anyone knows where the good doctor is, it would be his second in command.

"Where's Dr. McCoy?" Kirk asks, a smile on his face.

M'Benga returns the smile, with a nod towards one of the side rooms. "He's currently performing the physical part of an exam on one of the crew, sir, but it should be safe to poke your head in for a moment."

With a salute and a grin to both of them, Kirk moves to the door. Slipping inside, he asks, "Bones?"

"What, kid?" Bones responds, not even bothering to look up as he continues examining the inside of his patient's ear. The patient looks up at his voice, and Kirk sees that it's Chekov currently on Bones' table. Keeping his head still for the doctor, Chekov waves at Kirk with a huge grin on his face. The diminutive Russian looks slightly vulnerable sitting on the edge of the biobed in one of the flimsy hospital gowns, his pale legs sticking out the bottom and dangling over the side.

Waving back to his navigator, Kirk answers with, "Are you free to go for a drink tonight? I'm off-duty tomorrow, and I checked the duty roster – you are, too." He keeps it short and sweet, knowing that he's interrupting Bones' work and he'll make the doctor grumpy if he takes up too much time.

A simple grunt is his response, and it's accompanied by an indulgent wave of the hand. At the same time, the doctor switches to the other side of the biobed, looking into Chekov's other ear.

"Great! Meet you in the usual spot as soon's your shifts over, then!" Kirk calls as he wiggles his eyebrows at Chekov – making the younger man giggle – before slipping back through the door. Waving goodbye to Uhura and M'Benga as he goes, he exits Sickbay.

As soon as he steps out the door, he is approached by an ensign who's been sent to get his assistance with yet another problem, and the minutiae of being Captain engulf him again. He immerses himself in the little mini-crises that occur, keeping himself occupied until it's time to meet Bones.

By then, exhausted yet somehow satisfied with his day, he is free from the burden of his duties for a little while. After a quick stop at his quarters to change his clothes, he makes his way to Bones' and his secret hidey hole. He takes with him a bottle of the Caladari's best liquor – it's their equivalent to beer, and after he'd tasted it at the reception, he'd had to buy two bottles; one to satisfy the tribble bet with Scotty, and one to enjoy for himself.

He slips inside the tiny observation room, as the door swooshes quietly closed behind him. Once inside he exhales in a long sigh, already feeling some of his worries slipping away. The muscles in his neck, which have refused to relax no matter how much he rubs them, slowly begin to loosen.

It's obvious that the room is rarely used – it's in an awkward location on the ship, a long way from the living quarters and tucked in a corner. Also, the viewing window is tiny compared to the other observation rooms – and it is the only thing truly worth noting in the room. The only furnishings are a worn old couch that Bones and he smuggled in, and a table for them to put their legs up on.

Crossing over in front of the couch, Kirk slumps down into the warm comfortable cushions and stares out the window. Even though they are currently orbiting a planet, he cannot tell – the observation room faces up, and out. What he can see from this vantage point is a lovely view of the nacelles – which was probably the original purpose of the room, used by engineers for visual inspections of the ships propulsion systems. There is a sprinkling of stars visible beyond the ship, but Kirk's eyes are always intently focused on the smooth lines of his lady.

Twisting open the seal on the bottle, he lifts it to his lips and takes his first drink. The fruity beverage is delicious, and he savors the taste. Bones won't mind if he starts a little early, and he wants to take the edge off after a hectic day. Focusing on the feel of the bubbly liquid in his mouth, he tries to silence the thoughts of Spock that keep surfacing – but the only thing for him to focus on to take his mind off the Vulcan are the nacelles, and even though they are sleek and beautiful, his mind is never distracted for long.

So he's grateful when he hears the door whisper open and closed, and soft footsteps approach. Then there's a clucking noise as Bones steps up to him.

"Now _that_ was a day!" he comments, as he swings around to plop down on the couch. "I thought that last ensign was doing his best to get out of kitchen duty by pretending he had stomach pains." He shakes his head.

Turning aside from his reflection on the merits of long Vulcan fingers, Kirk gives Bones one of his customary grins. "Never thought I'd see the day when a visit to Sickbay would be preferable over anything else."

Bones lets out a chuckle. "Me either, kid. Me either."

"Was he faking?" Kirk asks.

He shakes his head. "Nah, tests showed his appendix was actually about to rupture. I spent the last hour or so of my shift performing an emergency appendectomy." As casually as that and Bones is holding up the bottle and two glasses in his hand. But Kirk is used to the offhand comments that would disturb anyone else, especially after years of bunking with the doctor.

Kirk declines the offer by displaying his already opened bottle, earning him a shrug from his friend – Bones doesn't care where the liquor comes from, as long as they have some. The doctor carefully sets his burden on the floor, and reaches for the bottle in Kirk's hand.

"So you started without me, you ungrateful brat," he teases, taking a swig. His lips smack as the flavorful beverage hits, and his eyes widen in surprise. "And I can see why."

"Figured as long as I left enough for you, old man," Kirk responds with a grin, and turns back to look out the window, "you couldn't complain. Seems I was wrong."

A snort, as Bones settles more comfortably into the sofa. "Damn right you were wrong," is Bones' quick rejoinder, and then they settle into silence.

Each man is occupied by his own thoughts as they pass the bottle back and forth a couple more times. Kirk's ready grin disappears, as his thoughts turn turbulent once again. He can see, from the corner of his eye, that Bones keeps shooting him glances. And then his friend can't take the suspense anymore.

"I know I probably don't wanna hear your answer, but are you gonna tell me what's bothering you already, or what?" the doctor mumbles, shifting uncomfortably as he passes the bottle back.

Kirk cradles the glass container in his hands, staring at it while he pulls his thoughts out of the mire they had sunk into, and tries to paste them into something constructive. The answer, when he finds something he's able to articulate, is pathetically simple. "Spock. Always Spock."

A grunt, a simple sound that somehow conveys so much of Bones' disgruntlement and affection. "I figured. That green-blooded hobgoblin is bad on the liver. What'd he do this time?"

"He didn't _do_ anything –" Kirk begins, pauses, and then starts again. "He never does anything. Which is part of the problem. He's just kind, and noble, and so smart and I can't stand to be near him anymore cause it's starting to kill me inside."

A warm hand on his shoulder, gives him a squeeze. "Wanting and not knowing is more horrible than anything else, isn't it?" he's asked in a quiet voice.

Kirk just nods, watching as his fingers tap against the fabric pulled taut over his knee.

"When Jocelyn and I started courting, it hit me harder than her. I couldn't stop thinking about her, I was crazy in love – and she was oblivious for the longest time. But she was everything to me from the very beginning, and I couldn't imagine being with anyone else," Bones admits, speaking quiet words to the darkness and the stars. "I know how it is."

And Kirk believes him, knowing full well how much pain it causes Bones to liken anything he felt to Kirk's feelings for Spock. And he sighs, slipping into the moment and just letting his feelings wash over him. The desperate want, the pain he feels just as keenly as the desire – and the gratitude, the love, he feels for his friend. Unreservedly, and without fear. And he's hit with the knowledge that no matter what he says, no matter what he does, Bones will always be there for him.

The realization breaks him out of his funk, and he shakes himself to get rid of the last of the sadness. "Thank you," he tells his friend. Then, because he can't take thinking about his problem anymore, and he owes Bones for listening to his issues. "So…how are you and Uhura progressing?"

A look of wonder and awe passes over the doctor's face. "She's just so amazing. So smart and witty and that laugh…."

Kirk grins at the expression on his friend's face, and it's his turn to slap Bones' shoulder. Even with all the trouble he's had with Uhura lately, he's happy for them both. "I'm glad you can get her to laugh again. She's been far too serious since…well. You know."

Getting solemn in an instant, Bones has the wonder in his eyes still, but there's worry at the fore. "Yeah. Well, that's one of the reasons we're taking it slow. Our last relationships were hard on each of us, and we don't wanna rush things." A pause, as his friend considers. "I don't wanna mess this one up. She's all kinds of special, and I'm still in a daze that she said yes."

He squeezes the shoulder that's still under his hand, as he replies, "she'd be an idiot not to, Bones. You're the best catch on this ship – other than myself, of course!"

For his trouble, he earns the expected glare, which he returns with a grin. Then Bones raps the back of his head, the practiced fingers ruffling Kirk's already messy hair. "Of course you would think that, you testosterone filled adolescent."

"Hey! I passed out of that stage a long time ago!" he replies, in what sounds suspiciously like an indignant squawk.

"Apparently not long enough!" is the quick comeback, and then Bones pauses to look at their surroundings. "What the hell are we doing here, anyway?"

Confused, Kirk checks his friend to make sure his head is still attached properly. "Getting drunk. Why?"

"We're orbiting a planet, for chrissakes!" Bones complains, standing – with not even the hint of a wobble in his step. "We should be sitting in whatever passes for a bar down there, getting some real alcohol without having to delve into our precious stash!"

Kirk blinks, considering. But he can't find any flaws in his friend's argument.

"You know what, you're right," he mumbles, as he stands too. He can feel the alcohol rushing through his system, but it's not enough to affect his balance yet, either. They've both been portioning out so they could enjoy the night.

"Exactly! Cause I'm always right!" Bones replies, and Kirk doesn't bother correcting him. "And I need to cheer you up – so we're going, and we're going now."

His grin is easy as he readily agrees. He can always count on Bones to get him out of any funk he's dragged himself into. Just another reason Kirk knows how lucky he is to have Bones as a friend.


	24. Part Two, Chapter Twelve

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

"All right," Kirk says, his eyes not leaving the PADD in his hand as he closes the conversation with his chief engineer. "Scotty was able to get the rec room closed off under the guise of repairing some of the lighting fixtures."

"And you had no idea he could do something sneaky," Uhura jibes, her eyes laughing as she glances at Sulu.

"Well, I didn't have prior knowledge of his devious nature," Sulu defends himself, and Kirk can only assume they're referring to the still that the captain isn't supposed to know exists.

While they're talking, Kirk's scanning the scheduling detail Uhura set up. He catches a conspicuous absence, and files it away instead of mentioning anything – for the moment. Satisfied with how everything seems to be shaping up, he glances to the man at his left. "Hikaru, does Chekov suspect anything?"

There's a grin on the pilot's face, as he shakes his head. "Nah, not at all. In fact, I'd say Pavel's worked himself into quite a funk – he thinks everyone's forgotten he's turning eighteen in a couple days."

"Good, good," Kirk murmurs, setting the PADD down and rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Everyone had been told to keep it quiet – and thankfully he has the best crew, ever. "And thanks to Uhura," he says, offering her a smile that she returns as her hands fold neatly before her on the table, "everyone he cares about will be at his surprise party."

"I've also got most of the supplies taken care of," she adds, her smile shifting so there's smugness there. "Including some surprises that requisitions didn't want to give up."

Glancing at the timepiece, Kirk grimaces. "I wish I had time to go over that with you, and see if there's anything else you need, but I have that conference with Pike in just a few minutes."

Sulu takes the hint and stands, punching Kirk in the shoulder as he makes his way towards the door. "I'll make sure he stays oblivious, Captain. You can count on me."

"And try to keep him distracted, so he doesn't get too depressed, will you?" Kirk mentions, rubbing the back of his neck where a coiling of tension has begun. "We don't want him thinking nobody cares about him at all."

"Gotcha," Sulu replies, and then with a wave he's gone.

Turning away from the door, Kirk watches as Uhura stands and gathers her supplies for a moment before he brings up his earlier observation. "I noticed that Sulu's name wasn't on the schedule for beta duty Friday."

He watches as her eyes widen slightly, and then her shoulders shift in an elegant shrug. But she still doesn't meet his gaze as she replies. "Oh, really? I hadn't realized."

Her feigned nonchalance makes him laugh, and he leans back in his chair. A faint crease appears between her brows as she looks up at him. "I can add him back in, if you would prefer, sir," she says, her voice stiff and formal.

Kirk shakes his head, leaning forward to turn off the PADD that holds the schedules. "No, no, that's not what I want," he corrects, smiling as he looks up at her. "I'm just glad someone else noticed it – I was beginning to think I was going crazy."

Almost instantly her shoulders relax, and her eyes crinkle prettily. "I wouldn't be worth my title as Communications Officer if I couldn't read body language that obvious, Captain."

They chuckle together for an instant, before the tension returns.

"As you saw, I have everyone working in two hour segments," she continues after a moment, the glimpse of friendship that's possible between them buried once again. "I figured that was the best way – instead of a few people having to step out to man the Bridge all evening, everyone takes a turn for a short while. That way everyone gets to enjoy themselves."

He nods his approval, and then silence descends between them as Uhura moves her supplies into her bag, her head down as she works. Kirk lets it continue, his fingers tapping on the top of the conference table as he watches her. The awkwardness between them is still palpable sometimes, though it's gotten better as the weeks have gone by. And it doesn't surprise him – his relationship with her has never been easy. A sigh passes his lips as he rests his chin on his hands. At least there's no outright hostility between them anymore. But it has been harder for him to relax around Spock when she's in the room – _he_ knows that _she_ knows, and he's had to walk on eggshells since that awkward conversation.

The sigh makes her look up, and her eyes soften. Her hand hesitates over one of her PADDs for a moment, and then reaches out to briefly squeeze his shoulder. "If you're worried about your eval, don't be," she mentions, out of nowhere.

The subject surprises him, and it's his turn to raise his eyebrow.

"You're an excellent captain," she explains, straightening with her bag pulled over her shoulder. "Everyone knows that – Pike knows that. You'll do great."

"Uh…thanks," is all he can really think to say, as another uncomfortable silence falls between them. It's not what he was contemplating, but he can't but appreciate the words and the sentiment as further sign that things are improving between them. Even so, they're left blinking at each other until the sound of someone clearing their throat by the door breaks the tension.

Uhura breaks into a smile, one that's without reservations – unlike when she smiles at Kirk. "I'll leave you two alone to wait for the incoming from Pike," she says, and makes her way to the door.

"Uhura," Kirk calls out after her, turning in his seat to face the doorway. She pauses, looking back over her shoulder at him questioningly. "Thank you. For all your help with the party."

One corner of her lips shifts upward into a smile, and she nods at him before saying goodbye to Spock and slipping through the door.

"Greetings, Captain," Spock murmurs as he seats himself in the chair to Kirk's right.

"Hey Spock," Kirk replies, reaching out to brush a fingertip against the shoulder seam of the Vulcan's uniform. He takes pride in the fact that the muscles don't tense beneath his touch anymore. "Are you ready for this meeting?"

Spock's right eyebrow rises, seemingly of its own accord, and Kirk catches a flash of humor in those brown eyes as Spock responds. "Seeing as Admiral Pike is the one administering the evaluations, there is nothing required of me to be prepared beyond arriving at the specified location at the designated time."

His eyes scrunch as he sticks out his tongue at Spock. "You know that's not what I mean! Are you ready to hear what he thinks?"

The eyebrow stays right where it is, as Spock deadpans. "How, exactly, would I prepare myself? If any of my actions as first officer require improvement, I will do so."

Before he can think of a suitable response the comm. unit on the table beeps into life. There's no need for an explanation, as the Bridge is only authorized to forward one call to this conference room.

Pressing the appropriate button, he orders, "Patch it through," and a moment later Pike's familiar visage appears on the forward screen. There's a hint of warmth, of a smile, before he speaks.

"Captain Kirk, Commander Spock," he says, nodding at each of them in turn. "I want to thank you for meeting with me today."

Sparing a moment to reflect on how grateful he is that his mentor and he are over the rough patch caused by the tribble incident, Kirk tries to push down any distrust he holds for anything resembling evaluations, and gives his customary cocky grin. "Admiral Pike."

"Greetings, Admiral," Spock replies a moment after, his voice smooth as always.

"We all know what brings us here today," Pike continues, glancing down at the PADD visible on the table. Kirk takes the opportunity to observe his mentor unnoticed, taking in the lack of a wheelchair – finally, thankfully. Pike looks good, and Kirk allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Of course we do," Kirk says, leaning forward and splaying his fingers across the tabletop. "You're here to tell Spock how awesome he is at his job, except that he needs to babysit me better and make me behave a bit more."

A flash as Pike's eyes raise to meet his through the screen. "And to tell me that, officially, I am doing 'acceptable', but need to follow regulations more to avoid giving the Admiralty frequent heart attacks." Or, at least, this is the outcome he's expecting from the evaluation of their first six months in space. Besides the one major foible with Uhura and the tribbles, Kirk believes his crew and he have been doing well.

Pike's laughter, sharp and surprised, floats through the room. "Essentially, Captain, that is correct. More detail exists in the official report I'll be forwarding along, but yes."

His eyes shift to focus on his former First, pride easily visible in his expression, "You've been handling your responsibilities phenomenally well, Spock. I know you don't usually accept praise and instead view it as unnecessary, but I give it when it's warranted. It's only been six months, but you have already balanced the majority of your duties as first officer and science officer. That is an outstanding accomplishment, and the Admiralty has certainly taken notice of it."

"Thank you, Admiral," Spock replies, bowing his head. "Your appraisal is noted."

Pike nods back, before his eyes return to Kirk – and the blond can feel himself squirming in his chair under their intense gaze. "And you have fulfilled each of your mission parameters, if sometimes unconventionally. While the Admiralty may not always approve of your methods, they are unable to deny that they are effective and always follow the heart of Starfleet regulations, if not the letter. While they are not always pleased, they can find no fault in your captaincy…so far." And Kirk can hear the pause there, the hint that refers to his probationary period, and he straightens in his chair, focusing intently. "Aside from one relatively minor oversight which created a situation you and your crew answered expediently and with ingenuity, your time in the chair has gone better than most first year captains."

And the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding escapes in a whoosh, a huge grin spreading across his face. Kirk had been worried about how much that incident would affect his chances of keeping his ship for good, and he can't help the relief that so far, it's not going to. "Thank you, Admiral Pike," he says, the knot between his shoulder blades disappearing.

"Oh, I get an 'Admiral Pike' for that, instead of an 'old man'?" comes the sharp rejoinder.

Kirk holds back a comment about Pike not looking old anymore, and tilts his head to the side as he replies with, "Nah…the gray just makes you look distinguished."

"Unmannered whelp," Pike says with a snort, and Kirk can see he's trying to hide a smile. One of his hands raises, and Pike massages his temples as he continues, "I'm probably going to regret this, but – and this is my personal opinion, therefore off the record – you both are doing an excellent job. _Especially_ with your unorthodox methods, and you're fulfilling everything I'd hoped you'd be. Keep it up."

And the glance he throws Kirk from behind his hand is weighted, heavy with meaning that he can't say aloud because of Spock's presence in the room. But Kirk can still easily read the message held there.

He just needs to keep it up for six more months.

* * *

He's surrounded by smiling, happy people. They laugh and mingle, glasses clinking merrily as the crowd ebbs and flows in its constant little dance. And unlike the rest of the gatherings he's been to recently, here there is no undercurrent of testing, no veiled eyes searching for the metaphorical – or physical – upper hand. These people are simply here to bask in the presence of their fellow crewmates, and enjoy the two-fold celebration. And it shows on their faces – open, and excited, with no signs of the stress Kirk usually witnesses.

Well, everyone is happy except the silent man seated beside him. With a grumble, Kirk reaches out and socks his friend soundly on the arm.

At least it elicits some form of response, as Sulu rubs the offended shoulder and gives Kirk a glare. "What's _that_ for?"

Ignoring the scowl now focused on him, Kirk jerks his head in the direction Sulu has been staring all night. At the blond curls that are visible, even in this crowd, as the birthday boy travels from group to group. "Why don't you just go over there and ask him to dance already?"

Against all estimations otherwise, it is possible for the scowl on Sulu's face to deepen. His eyes glance at where Chekov momentarily disappears in the sea of people, then back at Kirk. "I don't want to spoil his night by keeping him all to myself." A pause, then a defeated shrug. "Besides, he hasn't danced with anyone who's asked, so it looks like he's not interested."

Kirk lets loose a long-suffering sigh, and shoots his friend a pitying look. "I know you haven't noticed cause you're too busy glaring at anyone within a meter of him, but he's been making moon eyes at you all night." And he knows he's using one of Bones' favorite phrases, but at the moment it sure seems appropriate.

He almost laughs at the startled expression on Sulu's face, but manages to hold it in. "So why don't you save the both of you a lot of headache, _stop_ sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, and just go ask him to dance like he's been waiting for all night."

The deer-in-headlights look really is cuter on Sulu than Kirk expected, as the pilot stares at the blond with his jaw dropping. "But –"

"No buts," Kirk interrupts, and then adds with a grin. "Well, not in the rec room anyway, might make some people feel uncomfortable. But in your quarters or his afterwards, there better be two."

Sulu's eyes widen, and he seems to choke on thin air. With a snort, Kirk gives the pilot one more shove – physically, and metaphorically. "Go _on_ , I know you've both wanted it for ages. Take the chance that's finally been given to you! He's legal, _enjoy it!_ "

He only hesitates a moment longer before Sulu makes his way over, shaking his head as he goes. Kirk knows his smile is huge as he watches his friend leave, happy for both of them. They're good for each other, and it's made even more obvious by the deer-in-headlights look on Chekov's face – visible even at this distance – when Sulu finally speaks to him and they step out onto the dance floor.

Utterly satisfied with his role as matchmaker, Kirk turns to people watching once more. The rest of his Bridge crew is tangled in the nameless crowd, but instead of feeling alone he's feeling accomplished. The last six months have done wonders to turn these people from strangers to a cohesive, collective crew – and, most importantly, into _friends_.

Lost in thought, he almost doesn't catch the approach of one member of his crew until she's nearly reached him. With a start, he shakes himself from his revelry to greet her. "Enjoying yourself, yeoman Hsien-Ko?" he asks, with a smile.

She smiles in return, and a blush dances prettily across her cheeks. "Yes, Captain," she replies, hands folding demurely before her. "Would you like to dance?"

The question catches him by surprise, and it takes him a moment before he can formulate a response. If he's going to tell Sulu not to sit and pine away all night long, he better be willing to take his own advice. Kirk might not be interested in dating any of his crew – besides Spock – but that doesn't mean he can't dance with a pretty girl.

Standing, he holds out his hand. "I'd be glad to," he answers, as her small hand fits into his and he leads her out onto the dance floor.

A slow song is playing, most of the couples around them holding each other close and just swaying to the music. Kirk feels awkward, almost as if he were back in grade school, as he keeps a respectful distance between himself and Hsien-Ko. He doesn't miss the disappointment in her eyes as they move smoothly over the floor, and he tries to make up to her – without getting her hopes up – by highlighting some entertaining moments about the last time Chekov saved them from certain demise with his genius super powers. And when she smiles, he doesn't regret the fact that he's exaggerating the story a little bit.

But he also doesn't miss the fact that he should be basking in her attention, and trying to get closer – instead of just wanting to move away. He can't seem to stop his eyes from roaming through the crowd, hoping to catch sight of a head of dark hair and perfectly pointed ears.

So when the Vulcan suddenly appears at his side, precisely as the song is coming to a close, Kirk can't help his momentary surprise. Spock arriving at exactly that moment seems far more than coincidence – almost as if the Vulcan wished to ask him to dance – but Kirk dismisses it out of hand as wishful thinking on his part. That would be the action of a jealous Human, not a stoic Vulcan.

"Spock!" he says, shaking away the surprise and letting genuine happiness into his voice. The Vulcan looks even better than usual in a soft tunic and pants. Kirk sees Hsien-Ko's face fall, feeling a momentary pang of regret – but it's not enough to hold him there.

"Would you excuse us, yeoman?" Kirk asks, as Spock nods to acknowledge his greeting. The woman gives a slight moue of disappointment, but Kirk hardly notices as he turns towards his First. With a wave in her direction, Kirk leads Spock through the crowded room until they've reached the edges of the party.

"Thanks, Spock," he says once they're out of earshot, his voice pitched to carry through the constant noise of the party. "I would have had a devil of a time coming up with an excuse to leave."

The muscles in the broad shoulders before him ripple, and he's left wondering exactly why in the moment before the Vulcan speaks, "Think nothing of it, as I was not under the impression you required assistance when I arrived."

When Spock turns to face him once again, thoughts of Hsien-Ko and Spock's timely arrival fly from his mind. It's easy for Kirk to catch the signs of obvious stress around his first's eyes – he spends far too much time observing the Vulcan not to notice. Immediately concerned, he frowns as he has to stop himself from squeezing Spock's forearm in assurance.

"Hey, would you like to go somewhere else and talk?" he mentions, mentally cursing himself. He had forgotten how many people there are here, how there's not enough room to avoid bumping into Spock so the other guests would be brushing against him continuously. It must be a great strain on the Vulcan's shields.

A pause, in which Kirk assumes Spock is assessing his internal control, before the Vulcan nods. "That would be agreeable."

"Great," he replies, before slipping out the door with his First following behind. By unspoken accord, they make their way to the small observation deck off the Bridge that's become their customary hidey-hole, talking as they go. With each step, Kirk watches as the signs of stress ease on Spock's face, giving an internal sigh of relief when the door to the observation deck is closed, and the stress disappears completely.

As always, they both step up to the viewing window, Kirk standing close enough so that the fabric covering his shoulder brushes against Spock. Other than that, he keeps his hands to himself, giving Spock time to reinforce his defenses. There are some things he doesn't want seeping through to the Vulcan.

"Are you positive you do not desire to return to the party?" Spock asks, and Jim can hear a note of hesitation in his voice.

Shrugging at his _ne ki'ne_ , Jim shakes his head. "Nah, I've had enough of parties for a while." He says it with a smile, warmed at the thought that Spock is considering him in the face of the Vulcan's own discomfort.

His eyes don't leave Spock's face, so he catches the smooth lift of an eyebrow as the Vulcan turns to regard him. "Indeed? I had assumed that outcome was not a possibility."

The comment surprises a laugh out of him, but Jim has to admit, "Yeah, me neither. But then again, I hadn't known what would happen if I found myself trapped in a karaoke bar with Bones where I'm the only person he knows."

"Indeed," Spock replies, the eyebrow receiving a curious tilt.

Answering the unspoken question, Jim taps his fingers against the railing as he continues. "It was that night we were off duty on the Caladari's home world. We went down to the planet, found a good bar serving that fruity liquor they're so fond of making. The bar just _happened_ to have their equivalent of karaoke going on, and Bones was…a lot more interested than I had any right to expect."

He shudders as he remembers the horrors he was subjected to. "I narrowly escaped joining him on what passed for a stage, but my protests did nothing to stop him from taking multiple turns himself."

"The worst one of all? He sang 'Summer Loving.' Acapella. Both parts. _By himself_."

Fruity tang of apples on his tongue, but Jim hardly notices he's gotten so used to it happening. All he sees is the humor shining out of Spock's eyes as the Vulcan shakes his head.

"Fascinating," Spock says, the sarcasm virtually oozing out of the word. "I never suspected the doctor had a penchant for lyrical abandon."

Snorting, Jim hangs his head. "Neither did I. And I don't ever want to be witness to it again."

"I can certainly appreciate the sentiment," comes Spock's response, before silence lulls between them. The Vulcan's eyes change, the humor leaking away as something akin to awe replaces it. "I also had an…enlightening…experience while we were among the Calabari."

Curious – and also surprised Spock hadn't mentioned anything in the two weeks since they left that world – Kirk turns to observe the Vulcan more closely. "What happened?"

"I was in a discussion with one of their _helotes_ ," Spock begins, and Kirk recalls that the _helotes_ are members of the Calabari's third, neutral, gender and usually the people's scientists and great thinkers. "Regarding their symbiotic relationship with the flora that covers them, and the depth of their bond. I was curious about the telepathic abilities therein, and what each gained from the development of said bond."

"Instead of simply describing what occurs, the _helotes_ offered to allow me inside. To experience for myself what the bonding was." Those dark eyes widen, and Kirk can tell he's no longer looking out the window but seeing something else. "It…was like nothing I had ever before witnessed."

Blinking, Spock stares intently at Kirk. "The fungus is everywhere. Its roots fill the six chambers of the Calabari heart, feeding off the nutrients contained in their blood. It is intimately aware of the workings of the brain, not because it has one, but because it exists in the spaces between neurons. Even though, originally, they subsisted as two separate entities, they are irrevocably joined as one. The depth of the bond between them goes so far that there is no separation between the two – the Calabari and the fungus think, act, and live as if they are one being. Even their mental signature, their presence when my mind reached out for the joining, is of a single flame."

It's obvious how the experience affected the Vulcan, and perhaps ashamed of his emotional outburst, Spock looks down at his hands resting on the rail. After a moment, he speaks again. "No Vulcan has ever before witnessed a telepathic bond that deep, not in any of the races we have encountered in our time exploring beyond our world. I find I am fascinated by the possibility."

Clearing his throat, Spock continues, "And I am beginning to recognize what I believe to be envy when considering their ability to bond. The closest to that depth of bond we Vulcans are capable of achieving is called _t'hy'la_."

Kirk thinks he can understand Spock's envy. To have someone or something you can depend on, that is always with you no matter what. Someone that knows everything about you, intimately – even your deepest held secrets – and loves you anyway. It sounds appealing, but also terrifying in a very real way.

"What's a _t'hy'la_?" he asks, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar word.

His shoulders shift minutely beneath the fabric of his tunic, as if he's uncomfortable, but Spock replies. "It is the deepest level of a bond possible between two _katra_. Because of this, it is sacred to my people even though it has not been recorded since the time of the _S'Kanderai_." A pause, then "I, as a youth, once contemplated the possibility of finding my _t'hy'la_. Though when I applied logic and reasoning to overcome what I then viewed as Human failings, I discarded such a romantic notion as not befitting a Vulcan."

Kirk's mind is flooded with a million questions, starting with why there haven't been any recorded instances of _t'hy'la_ for eons, and moving on from there – but he won't press Spock for more information, as sharing even that much has probably taken the usually reticent Vulcan out of his comfort zone. And that if it had been anyone else, Spock would not have mentioned anything to begin with. Kirk counts it as one of the advantages of being _ne ki'ne_ – while he may not get all the information on Vulcan culture he desires all at once, he is rewarded with precious pieces being strung through their conversations.

And he also doesn't ask because that would leave him open to questioning from Spock – and he doesn't really want to examine the tiny spark of _want_ that flared to life in his heart at the Vulcan's words.

Perhaps it wouldn't be overwhelmingly terrifying if he had that type of bond with someone he trusted above all else.


	25. Part Three Chapter One

 

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

Sometimes, he's scared. These people are all really starting to feel like a family to him, and that terrifies him to his core. The more he cares, the more it's going to hurt if this ship and these people are taken away from him.

Like the man walking beside him, stride by stride as they make their way to the transporter room. Scotty's excitement and the spark of glee in his eyes make Kirk's lips spread in a lopsided grin, but there's also the tangle of fear clutching at his heart. Resolutely, Kirk pushes that fear away, focusing instead on what the Scotsman is saying.

"Ah think it'd be a wonderful idea, Cap'n," Scotty gushes, making Kirk break into a chuckle – after seven months, the engineer is still able to amaze him. With the laughter, the last of Kirk's fears dissipate and he is living in the present once again, instead of fearing for the future.

"Of course you do! It's your idea!" he points out logically, not surprised that Scotty's enthusiasm persists undiminished.

"An' the wee lad, an' the rest of 'em, they agree w' me! A wee bit o' competition would be good tae foster department unity," Scotty adds, the glint in his eyes turning calculated.

Kirk slaps the man on his back, conceding the point. But he's dubious. "By having them chuck logs around a field, or whatever else you crazy Scots do to showcase physical prowess?"

"Aye, Cap'n," Scotty says, all seriousness. "The Celtic Highland Games may be a wee bit old fashioned, but they'll make ye sweat faster'n trying tae catch Keenser after he steals one o' yer cupcakes."

He can't help but chuckle at the mental image of the Scotsman chasing after the giggling little green alien, Keenser waving the cupcake in the air as he keeps it just out of reach. And he has to admit that getting a little healthy department rivalry settled on a games field is a very good idea.

"There's just one giant hole in your logic, Scotty," he begins, pausing for effect. The engineer waits expectantly, walking along by his captain's side, and he's still got that half smile on his face that makes Kirk think he's holding something back. Like maybe he already knows where Kirk's going with this, and has a solution waiting like an ace hidden up his sleeve.

"Team building is great, and I'd never turn down an opportunity to fit in more," he hedges, as the Scotsman nods sagely beside him, "but we're on a starship." One more glance doesn't reveal any surprise at this revelation. "Where are we going to find giant logs? Or boulders? Or any of the oddball equipment necessary to hold these games?"

Scotty nods once again, still acting sage and somehow avoiding bobbling his head off his body. "I see yer point, Cap'n."

"Also," Kirk continues, "Again, with us being on a starship. Do you really expect me to allow my crew to chuck boulders as hard as they possibly can while they're  _inside the Enterprise_?"

There's genuine horror on the engineer's face, and Kirk can practically see visions of holes being ripped through hulls floating behind Scotty's eyes. "Oh nae, nae laddy!" the chief engineer is quick to reassure Kirk. "Ah thought we could use the new holo-whatsit that R and D has been playin' with."

That actually gives Kirk pause, and he feels his eyebrow raise in what he knows is a very Spock-like expression, but at the moment he can't help it. "The one based on the Quarkian technology?" And he lets some of his skepticism show through in his voice. "I didn't think they were far enough along to do anything with it."

The Scotsman nods in acknowledgement, continuing his impression of a bobble head doll. "Aye, they're years 'n' years from anything close tae human facial expression, much less whole scenarios like the Quarkians ken do," he admits, but the excitement is still there. "But they're at the point where they ken give the hologram shape, weight, 'n' basic texture."

Kirk can see the hunger in the engineer's eyes, the desire to tinker and explore. "An' Ah asked 'em if they ken throw summat together to calculate trajectory an' distance based on what vertex the objects are tossed intae. Simple physics cannae be hard for a computer to do, an' that's all we'd need."

His head cocked to the side, Kirk considers the concept from all angles. After several moments, he comes to a decision and stops just before entering the transporter room. Once again, he grips Scotty's forearm. "Then I'm leaving it in your capable hands. Make it happen, Scotty."

The engineer's grin then is huge.

* * *

It's been 22 hours since their arrival at Colony R Beta Phi, and the first thing he does when he's finally allowed to beam down to the surface is take a deep breath. He loves his ship, but no matter how much magic Scotty - who's beamed down with him – can jimmy out of the filtration system, the air will inevitably taste recycled. And the latest string of missions Starfleet has sent them on means it's been weeks since they've had a chance to spend any time planetside. Kirk takes his moment to enjoy his first fresh air in a long time, reveling unabashedly in the purity he can literally taste. He also lifts his face to the sun, allowing the warm rays to caress his face. It's been too long since he's felt the touch of a star.

This planet is different from other sparsely populated planets on the edge of Federation space. Glancing around the town square the supplied coordinates deposited them into, Kirk can see simple buildings made entirely of what appears to be wood – or whatever passes for wood on this planet. Off in the near-distance he can see the beginnings of a stone structure being birthed painstakingly from the earth, but there is no metal infrastructure. There are no machines spewing pollutants into the air, or poisoning ground and water. Given the vast majority of inhabited planets they visit are heavily industrialized, he finds this back-to-basics colony quite refreshing.

This is an unusual settlement by Starfleet standards. Situated at the very edge of Federation territory, the planet has frequent ion storms, which would normally make it unsuitable for human habitation. But its colonists are comprised of people who share a common belief that technology is evil, desiring to leave modern society behind, to exist, in their way of thinking, 'as humanity was meant to all along.' Because of this, the settlement resembles something more akin to the lives of the Amish on Earth's northern American continent, than the spacefaring civilization the rest of the planet has become. It is only this complete lack of technology that allows them to function on a planet with such disruptive weather.

Set up before the Federation made regular contact mandatory for new colonies, they lived self-sufficiently for over a hundred years, with no outside contact with anyone – including other Humans – until now. It was sheer luck that a year earlier the teenage son of one of the colonists had found some old communication equipment and had, unknown to anyone, got it working so he could secretly listen in on subspace messages from ships in the area. While what he'd done was forbidden, his actions had inadvertently saved the lives of all the colonists.

Bones and his team of medics beamed down the day before wearing environmental suits and immediately upon their arrival, began diagnosis of the disease that was killing the colonists. Meanwhile Spock and his science division took air samples in an attempt to locate any pathogens that may be responsible.

"It's SARS, Jim," Bones told him via subspace communication, his mouth down-turned. He looked highly unimpressed.

Whatever that was, it was apparently treatable as Kirk could see the doctor had taken off his environmental suit. He sat back in his chair, gazing at the monitor with a frown. "SARS? Sounds vaguely familiar."

"It should, if you know your Earth history. Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome. It's caused by the coronavirus carried by livestock that can evolve to allow it to transfer from animal to human hosts through poor hygiene. Several outbreaks in the early 21st century – the biggest in 2021 right before the third world war, killed an estimated half a million people. We've not seen this version before, but we'll have a vaccine ready in a few hours."

Kirk vaguely recalled reading about it. "So you can treat it?"

Bones gave him his 'you're an idiot' look. "Of course I can treat it! The deaths of the twenty three people here could easily have been prevented if they…oh I don't know…embraced some  _basic modern technology_. If we hadn't already been in this sector, that number would have doubled before anyone else could have gotten here. And god knows how many would have died if that kid hadn't been playing with the communications equipment and taken it on himself to send out a mayday."

Now, a day later, having ensured his inoculation is up-to-date, Kirk has finally gotten a chance to join Bones planetside. Scotty, on the other hand, is eager to see if he can learn anything useful from the locals regarding low-tech solutions to problems that might come in handy in the future. So, separating from his crewmate with a wave, Kirk makes his way to the town hall. It's easily identified, being the largest building in the vicinity – the only one big enough to hold all the colonists infected by SARS.

Kirk blinks several times after stepping inside, giving himself a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker light in the interior. Once he can see again, it's easy to spot Bones walking between the rows of makeshift cots holding patients, and makes his way over to his friend's side.

The doctor ignores his presence completely, instead focusing entirely on the frail-seeming girl in front of him.

"Now, Darlin, I just need you to stick out your tongue for me and go 'AHHHH!'" Bones instructs, showing her what he wants. Kirk also notices that the doctor intentionally crosses his eyes, turning his face into something goofy. The child giggles, sticking her hands in her mouth as she stares at Bones with wide eyes.

"You look silly! Like a fishy!" she cries through her giggles.

The doctor makes an exaggerated frown, settling his hands on his hips and looking down his nose at the girl. "That can't be!" he booms, "I'm a doctor, not a fishy!"

"Nope! Fishy!" the girl pronounces, with all the certainty only a child can possess, as she shakes her head from side to side.

Changing smoothly to his Serious Face, Bones raises his eyebrow and studies the little girl. Kirk knows that the whole time, the doctor has been studying her movements and reaction times, checking her recovery rate against a norm he's carrying in his head. The captain can't miss the silent whirring of the medical tricorder Bones has at his side, and that the doctor is evaluating his small patient without the little girl being aware of it. Kirk has to admire his CMO once again, marveling at the man's ability to keep the little girl calm and comfortable, instead of adding to her trauma by making her scared.

"Can  _you_  show me how to stick out my tongue without looking like a fishy?" he asks the girl, leaning forward to pay close attention.

She nods with enthusiasm, then sticks her tongue way out, staring at it as she does. Her eyes end up crossing too, and her expression looks remarkably similar to the doctor's when he stuck his tongue out.

Bones smiles and reaches out a hand to ruffle the girl's hair, "Very good, Nana. Thank you very much!"

The girl beams at him, and then suddenly a look of horror blossoms across her face. All the humor leaves Bones expression instantly, and he asks her in all seriousness, "Do you need help to the potty?"

Nana has shrunk in on herself, giving a slight nod as she seems to try and hide behind the covers. The doctor motions to one of the healthy looking adults in the room, and she begins making her way over to the little group – seemingly already knowing what's needed. Giving Nana one more pat on the head, Bones murmurs soothingly, "This lady will help you Nana, and I promise to come see you later."

The hopefulness at Bones' last words is obvious on the girl's face, and it causes Kirk's heart to constrict tightly. It hurts even more when he glances at Bones, and it's obvious the doctor didn't miss the expression either. There's sadness in the Georgian's expression, and then the eyes turn distant and Kirk knows Bones is thinking of another little girl around Nana's age. A little girl Bones had to leave behind on Earth.

Before anything else can be said, Bones turns to Kirk and grasps his commanding officer's forearm. He is led through the rows of patients, past people that are disturbingly silent, looking weak with sunken eyes and waxy skin. The further they get from the little girl, the more anger Kirk can sense from his friend. By the time they exit the building through the back, it's obvious his CMO is fuming.

Bones whips around. When he's facing Kirk, he can see the doctor's face is red and his eyebrows are forming a sharp furrow as his arms cross over his chest. He glances somewhere off in the distance, and Kirk can tell something made his friend so angry Bones wants to find someone and throttle them to within an inch of their lives. He waits patiently for Bones to be ready to speak.

"SARS, Jim," Bones hisses. He's too furious to even raise his voice.

A frown appears on Kirk's face to match his friend's. "You told me that last night."

Bones makes a sharp negative gesture with his hand. "I've lost three patients today – they were too far gone to help. One of them was the mother of the kid who made the mayday. He did it when she fell sick because he figured no amount of trouble he would get into could be worse than losing his mom. There is no reason at all this should even have a chance of developing, much less get to this level! There's even a goddamn vaccine!"

If anything, his expression gets even darker, and Kirk knows the doctor's thinking of the little girl whose life was at risk unnecessarily.

"SARS is easy to prevent with proper hygiene and sanitation procedures, and that damnable vaccine!" Bones growls out. "These bloody hippies and their idiotic distrust of technology! They already had people  _die_  and it took a kid to call for help!"

Kirk can completely understand his CMO's anger and frustration, but needs his friend thinking clearly and behaving professionally if they are going to be able to help these people. He rests a hand on Bones shoulder, pulling him close in reassurance. "People do stupid things a lot of times. But it's their choice to live like this, and we have to respect their wishes even if we can't agree with them."

The glower gets deeper. "Nana didn't choose this."

And of course Kirk has nothing to say to that, and is left floundering for words before his lightning intellect comes up with a solution.

"No, but her parents did," he murmurs quietly, "And giving her over to you, they are doing what they think is best for their child." He pauses, but not long enough to give Bones a chance to interrupt. "You wouldn't want strangers telling you how to raise Joanna, would you?"

Suddenly Bones really does look like a fish, his mouth working as he comes up with and discards possible arguments. His arms re-cross as he grumbles into his throat – just loud enough for Kirk to hear him, "No."

"While you're doing what's best for that little girl, and the rest of the people in there," he says, "I'll get Scotty and get with the governing body for the planet, and we'll do our best to make sure nobody gets sick from an oversight like this again."

Finally a little bit of the tension eases from his shoulders, and the doctor nods in agreement.

"Thanks," he mumbles, and Kirk knows it's for talking him down, understanding about Nana and all the rest.

Kirk smiles at his friend, giving his arm one more squeeze. "Don't mention it."

With one more nod, the doctor disappears back into the battleground that is the town hall.

Kirk moves off to find his chief engineer before Scotty takes advantage of what he assumes will be some free time on the planet. Because if the Scot has been left to his own devices too long, he will have found the local still – because there will be one, somewhere – with his preternatural powers.

(*)

It seems that over the years as the colony grew, they created a number of separate settlements, each, governed by a town council that handles the day to day running in each area. Once a year, they all meet here – the first and largest settlement – to tackle problems that affect the entire colony. A special emergency meeting was held to handle the current crisis, and the council Kirk finds himself meeting with is composed of the seven oldest males in the colony – who have hurriedly been inoculated against the infection by a still disgruntled Bones – a group of elderly men who are more rigid and prickly than any he has ever met. They make even the Vulcan council seem friendly and welcoming.

Kirk can't help but frown when more than half of the members refuse to even look at him, much less acknowledge his presence when he goes to give his report and rally assistance. He had thought that they would want to work with his crew, to find answers for how this tragedy had occurred, but it seems they are so mired in their isolationism that it's hard for them to reach past their self-imposed exile. He'd originally believed the streets of the town were mostly barren due to the outbreak, but now he suspects that a good portion of the populace refuses to witness Starfleet's presence on their planet.

"And now that we've identified the disease, we're prepared to assist you in making sure it doesn't happen again – while continuing to treat those who are currently sick, of course," he finishes, watching the faces of those around him to judge reactions. Based on the scowls that appear, they don't like the idea of Starfleet poking around their colony, even if it's in their best interests.

"Now see here, young man –"Councilor Johannasburg begins – he's the only one who's introduced himself and been willing to speak to the outsiders so far. "You can fix what's ailing our people now that you're here, and we're grateful for that. But we can handle the rest just fine, thank you very much."

He has a flash of memory of Bones' livid face at the thought of a disease so easily prevented, claiming lives. It's interrupted by a loud snort originating from the man beside him, and Kirk turns to Scotty with a raised eyebrow, tacitly giving the Scotsman permission to speak – while he's all for diplomacy, maybe some of Scotty's plain-talking will get through to them.

"With due respect, yerselves," Scotty begins, "so far ye're doin' about as well as a Frillaxian would a' knitting." He pauses to see if the reference is understood, and sighs at the blank looks he gets in response. "They dinnae have hands."

More righteous anger appears on the face of the speaking councilman, and he counters with, "Now you see here!" Johannasburg says, all indignation. "We've raised this settlement from nothing, do you hear me? With our bare hands, and the tools our ancestors used, and you have no right to come in here and judge us for our methods. This is exactly why we didn't want you people here –"

Kirk can't remember the last time he or his crew were referred to as "you people," but before he can think of a proper response, the Scotsman beats him to it.

"But ye're doin it wrong," Scotty interrupts matter-of-factly, shutting down the councilman's diatribe. "I dinnae care how ye make yer settlement, or the tools ye use. But yer livestock's kept upstream o' one o' yer wells! Yer drinkin' pisswater, an' worse!" He says the last part empathetically

Johannasburg shuts his mouth with an audible noise, his eyes wide with shock as he goes silent for a minute. All his bluster disappears, and he physically deflates as he glances at his fellow council members for support before speaking again.

"Perhaps you have a point," he finally concedes.

"Thank ye!" Scotty replies, flinging his hands in the air. "Nae, that weren't so hard, was it?"

At Johannasburg's sour nod of agreement, Scotty digs around in the satchel at his side and produces a rolled up piece of parchment. Kirk has to suppress a grin at the Scotsman's ingeniousness – bringing along paper, instead of fancy computer tablets, to assist with helping to get the councilors to his side. Spreading it open upon the table in front of them, he lets the council see it's a map of the village taken from the Enterprise's orbit above them. There are several key changes outlined in red.

"Ye see here, here, an' here?" Scotty continues, pointing to the appropriate areas on the chart.

Kirk smiles to himself as he settles further back in his chair, gladly letting his chief engineer continue to control the floor as they iron out a plan to ensure this type of outbreak never happens again.

* * *

For once, Kirk is at a loss on what to do with himself. The medical department is busy treating everyone with sinus and lung therapy to counteract the respiratory problems, fever and chills that are SARS' signature symptoms – and Bones is busy making sure those that aren't helping there are synthesizing enough medication to shorten the course of the disease in all affected patients.

Kirk has tried helping the engineering crews build the new livestock enclosures, but every time he sneaks over there he gets caught and shooed off by a domineering Scotsman. And even though he knows Scotty doesn't need the help – and really, he'd probably just get in the way, because he's not familiar with half the outdated concepts the engineers are using to fix the problems – he can't help himself.

Kirk is bored.

For once, he's caught up with his paperwork. He's already visited with Nana, and done his afternoon checkup on the teams to make sure everything is running properly. Rather than sit in the captain's chair twiddling his thumbs, he stays on the planet where at least he can stretch his legs. Even if there's a very limited amount of the settlement that the outsiders are allowed access to. He's got plans to observe an incoming ion storm from planetside, so he can experience some of the affects up close without it being life threatening. But it's still hours away.

He takes in a deep breath, and can't help but be entertained by his predicament. He's frustrated at actually having some free time, after being so busy these last months. Finally, he's not involved in a mission, or doing the myriad administrative tasks that come with his position. Or doing something crazy with Chekov and Sulu (who are off doing who knows what, together, as a couple), drinking with Bones and Scotty, or playing chess with Spock, or practicing  _Suus manha_  with Spock...

His brow furrows as he wonders if his First is done checking in on his teams. There hasn't been any sign of Spock all day. Sighing, he begins another round of the dirt track that passes for the road through town. He kicks a pebble so he can watch it as it skitters across the dusty track.

Kirk glances up as he hears the creak of wagon wheels and leather, a huge smirk spreading across his face as he sees a horse and buggy come into view. The bay gelding is not a shining example of horse flesh, the buggy nothing more than a box on wheels. It doesn't matter. It is the first horse Kirk has seen in years, and he has to restrain himself from running over and begging the colonist for a chance to touch it.

Instead, he drinks in the sight with his eyes, a huge smile on his face. He's so absorbed it takes him longer than usual to notice he is not alone in his observation – someone has stepped up silently beside him.

He can feel his shoulders ripple with tension as he realizes he let someone sneak up on him, but a quick glance to his side reveals the missing Spock, and he allows his instincts some forgiveness. He's become so used to the Vulcan's presence over the last months that it's strange  _not_  to have Spock by his side – he can't blame his instincts for not responding to his First's presence.

Spock's eyes are narrowed slightly as he studies the horse clomping slowly past. "That is an equine, correct?" he murmurs. Tension Kirk didn't even realize was there eases at the sound of Spock's deep voice, and he smiles his lopsided smile.

"Yup," he answers, wanting to turn back to the horse but somehow not able to look away from the Vulcan. He's learned to stop fighting the impulse. And he's glad he didn't, because then he might have missed it. There's a brief jangle that he recognizes as a bridle getting shaken, and that huffing half-whinny noise horses make on occasion – and suddenly Spock is all tense lines, hands almost raising into a defensive position.

Chuckling, he lays a hand on the Vulcan's arm. Not because he thinks he has to restrain Spock, but because he wants an excuse to touch his First. "It's the horse equivalent of a sigh, Spock."

Dark eyes glance in his direction, and just like that Spock shifts so he's at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. "I see. I was operating under the assumption that particular expression fell under the Human purview. I had not realized the other creatures of your planet were also capable of performing the aforementioned illogical action."

"You mean you haven't had the opportunity to see Archie sigh at me in disapproval yet?" Jim asks, that smile still present at one corner of his lips.

The eyebrow closest to him rises at the specific angle that expresses humor, and Jim licks his lips as the memory of a crisp apple stimulates his taste buds. "I had thought that was some clever trick he learned from his master."

Jim shakes his head, stealing one last glance at the horse just before it disappears from view. "Nope, that wasn't me. Sneaky dog is too smart for his own good sometimes."

Then something occurs to him, and all of his intense focus is centered on the Vulcan once again. "You haven't had a chance to see a horse up close and personal, either, have you?"

Spock nods in confirmation, not wasting words on agreement and an explanation Jim remembers from their first contact with Archie.

A smile spreads across his face, and he glances around the square to get his bearings. Nodding to himself as he finds a building that looks promising, he says to Spock, "Come on. We're going riding."

That eyebrow gets a skeptical tilt, and Spock does not make to follow him. "Do you think that is wise,  _ne ki'ne_?"

His smile is undiminished, the argument hardly unexpected. "Actually I do, Spock. I know both of us are unneeded until the daily debriefing at 17 00 hours, that everything is going smoothly at present, and we actually have some free time for once."

"If we are needed, we'll have our communicators with us at all times." Here his smile actually widens a bit. "Besides, would you rather have me in town, bored – where I can cause trouble? Or out in the wilderness away from the colonists, where you can still keep a safe eye on me?"

The humor returns to Spock's eyes as Jim addresses his concerns.

"When presented with that chain of logic, it is impossible for me to decline," Spock replies, and Jim hopes it's not his imagination when he sees genuine anticipation in those dark brown eyes.

"Great!" he responds, then his hand rubs the back of his neck as his grin turns sheepish. "Now we just have to hope that building I spotted is the barn, and that they have some horses to spare for the afternoon."

Another apple-burst on his tongue as he proceeds without waiting for a reply, knowing that Spock – as always – will be by his side.


	26. Part Three Chapter Two

 

* * *

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Kirk's hunch, as usual, turns out to be correct, and the building he'd spotted in the distance is indeed a stable. When he steps through the door, he pauses. This time, not to let his eyes adjust, but simply to inhale the rich scent of hay and leather and horseflesh, unique to stables no matter where in the galaxy they are located.

Not able to contain himself any further, he moves to the closest occupied stall, Spock following complacently beside him. The horse inside the loose box stall approaches him immediately, comfortingly unwary of outsiders, and whickers in greeting as he presents his nose for scratching.

The noise brings the attention of the rest of animals, as heads appear over the stall doors and peer in their direction. Apparently, along with housing horses, the stable also devotes some of its stalls to donkeys – and even a mule or two. The animals are not the only ones notified of a new presence, as the shaggy blond head of what seems to be the stables only human occupant pops out of the tack room.

A scowl appears instantly on the homely face as soon as the stable hand realizes who his visitors are, and Kirk has to hold in a sigh at the reaction. Thinking quickly, he comes up with a solution that he hopes will bulldoze its way through the prejudice and get them on more welcoming ground.

"Is this a quarterhorse?" he asks, forestalling any arguments or demands to leave, and is gratified that a flash of surprise wipes away the scowl on the stranger's face. And as expected, there's still obvious suspicion as the bow-legged man cautiously makes his way over to the pair. Ignoring the suspicion, Kirk waits, making sure his frank interest shows on his face.

"How did you know, eh?" the man asks them, eyeballing Kirk as the horse turns to demand scratches. Kirk watches with approval as the man automatically digs a slice of apple out of his pocket, holding it out for the horse to gobble up.

Leaning back, he squints his eyes as he replies to the question. "First hint was the shortened head. I also noticed how compact the gelding is, the broad chest and powerful hindquarters that are rounded just right for extra speed and maneuverability."

The stable hand actually chuckles as he gives the horse the additional apple slice he demands, sizing up Kirk from the corner of his eyes. Internally, Kirk mentally cheers, as the last bits of suspicion are slowly melting away. "You seem to know your horseflesh, eh?"

Kirk responds to the change in the man's demeanor with a disarming smile, relaxing just a fraction. "I know enough to get by. I just happened to have a certain quarter horse filly that had a special place in my heart. Got attached to the breed."

Nodding in knowing agreement, the shaggy haired man smiles. "That's how it happens, eh. What can I do you for?"

"My friend and I," and Kirk turns to indicate Spock, who's stayed silent at his side this whole time – signs of amusement around his eyes and the corners of his lips, "were hoping you might have a pair of calm, dependable animals that might need an afternoon of exercise."

The man considers a moment, and Kirk lets him turn it over in his mind without interruption, hoping the man won't say no. Finally, he nods in agreement. "This boy here hasn't gotten worked today, and I have a mare that could use some, though she's a bit more spirited." Here he pauses, and gives a warning. "But you only have a couple hours. There's another ion storm on the way, and you can't get caught out in that."

Kirk lets his grin show his appreciation, as he claps the man on the shoulder. The ion storm is still hours away, and they'll have plenty of time to get back before it hits.

"Sounds perfect."

(*)

The gelding – who they learn is named "Spot," even though he has none – is certainly placid, plodding along behind Kirk's mount without needing any prompting on Spock's part. His ability to direct himself seems to unnerve the Vulcan, as every time Kirk looks back to make sure things are still going smoothly, Spock is eyeing the animal with the creases that indicate suspicion in the corners of his eyes.

Kirk chuckles after the third time, because they've been in the saddle thirty minutes and Spock still hasn't decided the horse is safe. His eyes return to scanning the area before them in amazement. The forest that they have entered, that flanks the settlement reminds Kirk of a visit he once made as a youngster to the countryside of West Virginia – hilly, coated in tall, leafy trees, and a lot of ground cover. The difference is the color of the foliage wherein the Appalachian area is in greens and browns, this forest is all in blues and purples – its effect visually striking.

His mare enters an area where the trail widens out, and it's now possible for the two animals to travel abreast – at least until the trail narrows again – and he pulls back gently on the reins, slowing the mare until he's riding beside the Vulcan.

"He's not going to suddenly buck you off, or make a run for it, Spock," he consoles, trying to keep the smile off his face.

That suspicious gaze is now leveled at him. "I have read enough reports documenting the unpredictable nature of these animals, and would prefer not to allow my guard to relax," Spock replies.

In sharp contrast to Spock's stiff posture in the saddle, Kirk has a relaxed, confident seat, heels down and reins held loosely in one hand. He laughs at Spock's logic, and glances at Spot, who's clomping along happily with his eyes on the trail at their feet – mostly oblivious to his rider's unease, except for the tell-tale flick of an ear every couple paces.

"You have to temper those reports with knowledge of the individual animal, Spock," he explains. "A lot of horses are more active, and will test their riders to see what they can get away with. But not this old boy – he's just happy to be out for a walk, and is looking forward to a nice hot mash when his job is done."

Spock finally relaxes a little bit, settling more comfortably into the saddle. "How did you gain so much knowledge of the animals? It is my understanding that you grew up in an area of Iowa that relied more on machine power than horse power."

The question is innocent enough, but it makes Kirk shift uncomfortably in his saddle. The mare picks up his discomfort and flicks one ear back in response. Kirk pats her on the shoulder, surprised that the question doesn't elicit as much anger and sadness as it would have even six months ago.

"My mom," he begins, keeping his eyes forward as he speaks. "When I was little, I was obsessed with cowboys. She brought me to the local horse farm, and even arranged for me to have weekly lessons." It's one of the bright memories of his childhood, when he got to go with his mom – all by himself! – and visit the farm the first time. He remembers being in awe of seeing the big animals up close, and the joy of touching one for the first time. Even when things got bad at home, he always had that farm, and his mom made sure no matter what he kept up his weekly lessons.

He tries not to think about the rest of it: about the aunt and uncle he was sent to for being unruly, the farm he lived on for four glorious months before disaster struck. Some scars run too deep to be illuminated by the light.

Unaware of the darker thoughts Jim is skirting in his mind, Spock smiles with his eyes. "America's 'wild west' appears to be a common obsession for young Earth males."

Kirk can't help but smile at the statement, turning to the Vulcan. "Yeah, but not many of them get to  _become_  one – hat and spurs and everything!"

The Vulcan raises an eyebrow in amusement, but before he gets a chance to reply further, the gelding wiggles beneath him like an eel, letting loose a high pitched whinny. Spock's eyes widen in a clearly perceptible display of emotion, his knuckles white as he clutches the reins. Kirk's busy keeping his own horse from bucking him off, and he can't do anything but watch in horror as Spock's horse bolts, disappearing deeper into the woods.

After one last kicking hop, Kirk manages to regain control of his horse – grateful his skills haven't diminished too much in the intervening years. Digging his heels into the mare's sides, he sends her after Spock's careening mount. Before they leave the trail, he catches a flash of movement at the corner of his eye – a pink creature that looks remarkably like an Earth rabbit, staring vacantly after the horse as it munches some foliage. He files the information away, suspecting that this animal is the reason both horses spooked.

It's a headlong rush after the retreating form before him, and his heart is in his throat. The dash goes on for what feels like forever, and he keeps fervently hoping Spot will run out of steam, or forgets why he was running in the first place and just stop. Kirk knows how unsafe it is to move through the forest at these speeds, with roots and low branches to catch the unwary, and the few shouted pieces of advice to Spock haven't helped slow the horse at all.

His worst fears are realized when the horse in front of him stumbles on – something – and the gelding's forward motion comes to a sudden halt. His head is down from the run, and as Spot's body stops, Spock's does not. The Vulcan goes sailing over the gelding's withers, tumbling to the underbrush with a crash.

Kirk reins up, hard, his mare's hooves kicking up dirt and ground litter as she struggles to comply. Even before the horse has come to a complete stop, He hops from the saddle and runs to where Spock disappeared in the bright blue underbrush.

"Spock!" he cries, not caring that his voice sounds desperate as his imagination supplies him with a vision of the Vulcan with his head twisted at an unnatural angle from the impact of the fall. It's all his fault. Spock wouldn't even have gotten  _close_  to the horse if not for him.

A cough answers him, and he's so full of relief that Spock's alive that he staggers for several steps before regaining his balance.

"Here, Jim," comes Spock's voice, and then Kirk can see him through the growth, his Science blues initially camouflaging him. He's sitting up – he can sit up! – on the ground, covered in dirt and colorful leaves. The normally immaculate Vulcan's disheveled appearance would be amusing in any other circumstances.

Sinking to his knees beside Spock, Kirk grips the Vulcan's shoulder with a hand he doesn't realize is trembling until it comes into contact with Spock's steadiness.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his eyes scanning to check for any injuries.

The Vulcan ceases trying to brush the dirt from his rumpled shirt, and looks Kirk in the eye. "I am fine, Jim. I believe the phrase you would use is 'shaken up.' I was able to convert the momentum from the fall into a roll, thereby avoiding bodily injury."

Kirk lets out a huge breath, more relieved than he has any right to be. Standing, he offers the Vulcan a hand up, which Spock accepts without hesitation. Knowing he's not going to get a thank you, and not needing one, Kirk turns his attention to his second priority.

Hands up in a soothing motion, he makes his way slowly towards Spot. Unlike his mount, who is calmly grazing through the foliage, the gelding is standing in the same spot where he halted his headlong charge. His sides are heaving, his head is down, and the whites of his eyes are showing as he tracks Kirk's progress towards him.

Murmuring soothing nonsense, Kirk moves forward step by step. He's grateful that Spock stays behind without prompting, and devotes all his attention to the animal before him. Spot raises his head when Kirk is about five feet away, his shoulder muscles twitching as if to dislodge flies, but his ears staying forward.

Kirk flows forward the last few feet in a rush, grabbing the reins before the horse can decide to bolt once again. He needn't have worried, as the gelding doesn't even shift his stance at the sudden rush. He gulps, knowing that's a bad sign.

"Spock, can you help me a minute?" he murmurs, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the horse.

"Certainly, Jim," the Vulcan replies, and steps up to Kirk's side.

"Thanks," Kirk says, shifting so Spock can get beside him. "Take the reins, please. I need to check his legs."

Without further comment, Spock does. He can't know how serious leg injuries are, how worried Kirk is right now, but it seems as if he understands the severity in Kirk's tone.

"The animal is definitely in pain, Jim, though I cannot locate the source," Spock murmurs, causing Kirk to curse under his breath. He glances at the Vulcan, and sees those long fingers brushing Spot's muzzle in slow, soothing motions. Kirk smiles to convey his appreciation, and gets back to the business at hand.

Starting with the right foreleg, he moves counter clockwise, running his hands carefully down each of Spot's legs to check for tenderness. It's at the left hind leg that he finds what he is looking for. Spot is favoring the leg, hip cocked and hoof-tip barely brushing the ground. There's already visible swelling at the ankle, and when he runs his hands gently over the joint to test it, the horse whuffs to express disgruntlement.

He huffs, himself, as he straightens back up. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looks at Spock.

"Well, it appears he got a sprain," he admits, chagrined and relieved in equal parts. "It may not be broken, but he definitely can't carry either of us."

Spock gives the horse his Vulcan equivalent of a frown, then those dark eyes are focused on Kirk once again. "What are our options?"

Quickly, Kirk runs through them in his head. Beaming up is out of the question – there's a decent amount of cloud cover overhead now, which means the ion storm is close, and could interfere with the functioning of the transporters. He can't risk that with the horses unless either Spock's or his life is in danger. If they simply walk back, leading the animals, they certainly wouldn't make it to the settlement before the storm begins. That leaves one option.

"It looks like we'll be riding double." He glances at that leg one more time, and another thought occurs to him. "Hey Spock, can you do anything to help him? Maybe, I don't know…calm him a bit, or do something for the pain?"

The Vulcan nods in understanding, and his eyes close while those fingers still near the horse's forehead. It only takes a few moments before Spot raises his head, already looking more alert. His tail swishes back and forth as he takes in his surroundings.

"Thanks!" says Kirk, relieved.

(*)

There are warm, comforting arms wrapped around him. They rest at Kirk's hips, and every once in a while the natural movement of the horse beneath them causes Spock's chest to bump into his back. Despite the circumstances, Kirk is glad for the excuse to be so close to Spock – usually the only time he can get this much physical contact is during their daily  _suus manha_  practices, and those don't count because he's there to learn, and break out in a sweat. He doesn't get to simply enjoy Spock's presence, or his touch. He smiles to himself, and when it breaks out briefly from behind a cloud, he checks the position of the sun once again.

They've been travelling in what he believes is the right direction – the planet's sun is positioned over the shoulder opposite its location on their way out from the settlement, and they've been following a faint trail weaving through the underbrush.

It's hard to judge, because Spot cannot move at anything close to the mad dash through the woods that brought them here, and unfortunately cannot match even the steady walk they made during their travel from the settlement. The best they can achieve – even with Spock's intervention – is a hobble, forcing them to travel at a snail's pace to avoid further damaging the animal. But it feels like they should have met the original trail by now.

He's brought out of his contemplation by Spock's hands tightening across his hips.

"Bring the animals to a halt, Jim," he murmurs, his breath warm against Jim's ear as it tickles the tiny sensitive hairs on his neck.

And he forgets how to breathe. It's a good thing he automatically pulled back on the reins, because he doesn't have the brainpower left to do anything now. To make things worse, Spock doesn't shift back to his original position – instead he stays with his chest pressed against Jim's back, and he can feel the tension and excitement reverberating softly through the Vulcan.

Before it even percolates through his brain that he may want to be worried about why Spock had them stop, the reason for the Vulcan's warning comes into focus. Suddenly, his eyes can pick out of the bright foliage a creature ethereal and beautiful, that looks vaguely deer-like – if a deer were bright blue, had six legs, and looks like it has been dunked in a vat of glitter. The glitter helps break up the animal's outline phenomenally well; it's hard to make out her form, even though her exact position is known. Huge dark eyes are staring at their little group, and the middle set of delicate hooves stomp once in warning.

Jim couldn't have moved if he wanted to, not with Spock so incredibly close. His lungs are still trying to recall how to accomplish that whole breathing thing. For his part, the Vulcan is frozen behind him, even the thrum of excitement calmed. The horses couldn't care less about the animal, mouthing the undergrowth within reach of their questing lips in the hopes of finding something tasty.

The standoff lasts for an infinite amount of time, before the doe-creature begins slowly stepping forward one delicate opalescent hoof at a time. Melting out of the woods behind her come more of the deer-creatures, obviously a herd that even includes some young of various ages. They move smoothly down what appears to be a trail they're familiar with, picking their way down the path with heads held high and watching the little group intently.

Jim would be entranced by the group if Spock weren't infinitely more interesting. He's already turned partially in the saddle so he can observe the creatures coming towards them from the side, so he shifts infinitesimally more so he can observe the Vulcan instead. His eyes are wide, darting back and forth as he takes in all the details. Jim can't help but smile when he realizes Spock's lips are open just the tiniest fraction as he watches. In the Vulcan, it's the equivalent of being slack-jawed and gaping.

Something warm and bubbly builds in Jim's chest, and he knows he's grinning like an idiot when Spock turns toward him a fraction and their eyes lock. The smile disappears as Jim gets lost, the only thought he can comprehend is that Spock is so very close…he wouldn't have to lean in at all to capture those lips in his own.

He gulps, and Spock's eyes dart down, and Jim can almost swear they hesitate for a moment before they're back to capturing his in their gaze. Then Spock's lips are moving, and it takes Jim a moment to register that the Vulcan is speaking with him.

"The animals have moved on, Jim," Spock is murmuring, and Jim gets a heady burst of apple-flavor on his tongue.

Not capable of utilizing speech quite yet, Jim nods once and turns back to the forest before them. It's now obvious that the signs he'd hoped were the horses moving through the woods in their mad dash, are nothing of the sort. Instead, this is a game trail used by those deer-creatures, and he doesn't have the slightest clue where the trail will lead them.

Glancing up, he can no longer see the sun through gaps in the canopy – the clouds that have been gathering in angrier numbers have finally obscured it. They promise heavy rain, and soon. He glares at those clouds, and hopes they have time to find shelter before that rain begins to fall.

"Spock…" he admits resignedly, "I don't know where we are."

(*)

He's cold, and wet, and miserable. To try and combat the chill, he wraps the blanket around him a little tighter, and crawls even closer to their meager fire. At this point he's practically on top of it, and it's not helping. The blanket is one of the two meant to keep the saddles from chafing the horses, also not providing much warmth. They managed to find something that passed for shelter – but not until after the rain already started, and they both are drenched to the core. The officers are making do with the hollow that had been eroded into the side of a hill. The ceiling of their shallow cave is made up of the exposed roots of a giant tree. There is enough room for Spock, Kirk, and the fire – but just barely. The horses are tethered outside the entrance, the rain sluicing off them in waves.

The storm arrived in earnest, the ionically charged particles interfering with their communicators, and Kirk was barely been able to get through to the Enterprise. The ship's sensors were also affected, so they were unable to get help with identifying their position, meaning they were still operating blind. And they could not beam down any supplies, which meant no dry clothes, no camp supplies, and no food. With everything that had happened today, Kirk hadn't had time to eat since breakfast that morning. Now that he's sitting still, his stomach is taking the opportunity to remind him how very hungry he is, on top of being cold and wet.

Kirk watches the storm raging just outside their paltry shelter, and lets a rare sigh escape his lips. This time, he should have listened to Spock, and stayed bored. It seems that everything that could go wrong, did, and he's not enjoying the experience.

He feels a dark, contemplative gaze on him, the heat from those eyes almost palpable against his skin. Kirk glances at Spock, who is seated across the tiny fire from him. Even though the Vulcan must be feeling the cold and damp even more than his captain, there's not even the slightest hint of a tremor from Spock's muscles. Kirk's been shivering for at least the last thirty minutes.

He knows those eyes don't miss anything, and that Spock probably knows everything he's thinking at the moment, as he's not doing anything to hide his unhappiness.

"It would be a more efficient use of energy if we were to share the body heat we manage to generate," Spock says, breaking the silence that has hung gently over them since Jim ended his transmission. And for just a moment, the Vulcan lets his careful control drop, and Jim sees just how miserable Spock is in their situation.

And, as always, his idea has merit. Nodding, not trusting himself to speak through his chattering teeth, Jim scoots over to Spock's side of the fire – the side farthest from the entrance to their little shelter. He was trying to give the Vulcan some space after the extended contact required from riding double, but keeping warm is more of a priority.

They combine blankets and lie down on the dried leaves that litter the bottom of the hollow. Somehow, Jim ends up closest to the fire, with Spock's heat a constant at his back. There's hot breath on his neck, that warms him quicker than anything else could. That, combined with the arm carefully placed over his side, mean that he finally believes it might be possible to feel warmth again.

After a few minutes, he can feel the tension that was coiled in the Vulcan ease.

"Goodnight, Jim," Spock murmurs somewhere over his shoulder, and Jim can't help but smile at the purely Human phrase.

"Goodnight, Spock," he replies, shifting a little so he's lying more comfortably on his side.

Within moments, the Vulcan's breathing is deep and even, signifying sleep. A stab of humor-tinged jealousy tugs at Jim at the demonstration of Spock's control. He knows it'll take him a great deal longer before he finally finds sleep.

He sighs again, letting the air out in a slow movement so as not to disturb Spock's rest. This time it's an expression of contentment, as he's wrapped completely in Vulcan, and  _happy_  – something he didn't think was possible just a short while ago.

Holding his breath, he runs a fingertip across the back of the hand thrown over him. He closes his eyes, focusing on the feel of smooth skin beneath his. He wouldn't dare try something like this if Spock were conscious, not wanting to risk the Vulcan getting a glimpse of his unguarded emotions. But for the moment, it is safe.

He can't help but marvel at how far he's come, from being outside the Vulcan's bubble to being trusted by Spock to lie with him like this.


End file.
